•m 

- 


LIBRARY 

JNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


>,<£» 

CP    - 


THE 


STORY  OF  PORTUS 


AND 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND 


BY 


MARY  H.  LEONARD 


BUFFALO 

CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTON 

1894 


LIBRARY 


COPYRIGHT,  1894, 
BY  MARY  H.  LEONARD. 


PRINTED   BY 

CHARLES  WELLS  MOULTON, 
BUFFALO,  N.  Y. 


TO 

MY  FELL  O  W-  TEA  CHERS 

AND 
FRIENDS  IN  SOUTH  CAROLINA 

THIS  BOOK  IS 
AFFECTIONA  TEL  Y  INSCRIBED 

BY 
THE  A  UTHOR. 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE. 

THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 9 

LINES  TO  A  FRIEND 65 

SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTH 69 

Chevalier's  Song. 69 

The  Younger  South 70 

Black  Man' s  Song 71 

"Sandhillers  " 72 

JEFFERSON  DAVIS,  DECEMBER  IITH,  1889.  73 

HENRY  W.  GRADY 75 

MAGNOLIA 77 

A  SONG  OF  COTTON 78 

A  FATWOOD  FIRE 81 

MY  MOCKING-BIRD 82 

HERO-WORSHIP 83 

DENIAL 84 

THE  BRIDE 85 

BEAUTY'S  SERVICE 85 

MISUNDERSTOOD 89 

PERPLEXITY 90 

APPRECIATION 90 

ANSWER 91 

FULFILLMENT 92 

THE  LEGEND  OF  NINETY-SIX 92 

CHRISTOPHER  GADSDEN 95 

SONNETS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND 99 

ALONG  THE  CONGAREE  .  104 


THE  STORY  OF 

PORTUS 


The  Story  Of  Portus. 

PRELUDE. 

THE  tale  a  gracious  lady  told,  whose  heart 
Turns  ever  toward  the  haloed  days,  before 
War's  tempest  breath  convulsed  the  Southland 

air, 

O'er-turned  brave  hopes  and  shattered  to  the  roots 
The  social  system.    True,  the  storm  o'er-past, 
The  sky  was  clearer;  yet  some  costly  plants 
Were  crushed  forever. 

Many  a  such  doth  grieve 
Both  for  her  dead  whose  fruitless  sacrifice 
Stabbed  living  hearts  with  an  undying  pain, 
And  wofuller  still  for  the  resistless  law 
By  which  To-day  effaces  Yesterday. 
Sitting  among  her  shadows  oft  she  speaks 
With  loving,  lingering  words  of  years  whose  joys 
Loom  large  in  ghostly  memory  now,  whose  griefs 
By  distance  dimmed  have  lost  their  outlines  keen. 
And  though  one  vaguely  ask:   "Were  the  former 

days 

Indeed  so  fair  ?     Were  never  mutterings  heard 
Of  thunder-clouds  that  overspread  the  heaven 


io  THE   STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

And  sent  their  deadly  bolts  to  heart  and  home  ?  ' ' 
Yet  marvel  not  that  this  fond  gentle  soul 
Findeth  in  ruthless  change  no  kindling  glow 
To  renew  the  heart-fire  of  that  earlier  time. 

Yet  once  in  twilight  confidence  she  sat 

Beside  the  lightwood  blaze  whose  flickering  flame 

Lighted  the  halls  of  memory,  till  she  told 

Into  a  listening  ear  in  accents  soft 

This  story  of  her  girlhood;  and  revealed 

That  ev'n  to  eyes  of  sympathy,  perchance, 

The  social  system  held  a  sombre  side. 

A.  simple  tale,  of  stirring  incident  void; 

Record  of  lowly  lives  by  loftier  swayed, 

Of  how  the  unyielding  Way  of  things  doth  press 

Too  hard  on  here  and  there  a  suffering  soul 

Unbent  to  average  lot, — a  soul  that  chafes 

Against  the  established  order,  as  though  born 

For  a  later  era,  after  tardy  time 

Shall  bring  displacement  of  the  old  ideals. 

Systems  may  cruel  be,  though  men  are  kind, 
And  not  less  cruel  to  the  master  power 
Than  to  the  subject.     Both  in  coils  are  bound 
Till  fate  shall  free  them. — Nay,  I  meant  not  fate, 
That  pagan  despot.     Our  anointed  eyes 
Witness  the  coming  of  a  holier  realm 
Before  whose  scepter  systems  warped  must  bow. 
So  Earth  casts  off  old  fetters:  new-born  thoughts 
Rule  the  new  world,  and  over  all  stands  God; 


THE  STORY  Of  PO&TUS.  it 

Resistless,  hasting  not,  nor  lagging,  nay, 

But  working  in  His  time  His  own  decree. 

Man  doth  his  little  part,  yet  hath  not  power 

Greatly  to  change  or  quicken.     His  to  keep 

The  eye  well  open  to  the  signal  lights, 

The  ear  attentive  to  the  King's  command, 

And  so  direct  his  own  small  orderings, 

That  without  friction  or  impeding,  they 

May  find  adjustment  in  the  plan  ordained. 

His  part  so  feeble  ?     Then, — 'twere  trivial  fault 

To  fail!     O  coward  thought! — Himself 

Unneeded,  yet  his  traitorous  life  may  fall 

O'ertrodden  by  the  triumphal  march  of  truths 

He  feared  to  fight  for.     Was  it  Joshua's  might 

That  levelled  Jericho  ?     Yet  had  he  failed 

To  blow  the  trump,  then  were  his  memory  doomed. 

But  till  the  summons  on  the  appointed  day 

No  human  purpose  could  avail  one  whit. 

Thus  on  life's  battlefield  we  wait  in  faith 
And  patience  for  the  fulness  of  the  time. 

But  pity  for  the  souls  too  early  born 
For  life's  fulfilments!  So  I  tell  this  tale. 


12  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

ON  a  fateful  night  in  the  century's  earlier  half 
A  lawless  barque  with  human  chattels  enladen 
Sought  landing  with  stealthy  approach,  on  the 

desolate  coast 

Of  the  Carolinas.     Many  a  season  had  fled 
Since  the  Christian  world  had  vowed  that  Atlantic 

seas 
No  longer  should  reek  with  the  stain  of  the  traffic 

accurst; 

So  eluding  the  grasp  of  the  law,  on  a  shelterless  shore 
With  night's  black  curtain  its  infamy  blacker  to 

shield, 
The  slaver  emptied  its  wreckage  of  stolen  lives. 

Fit  scene  for  the  hellish  deed  was  the  murky  night: 
No  sound  but  the  grating  keel  and  monotonous 

plash 
Of  the  waves,   and   the  plain  of  the  night-bird's 

iterate  cry. 

Grim  trees  enfettered  tight  by  the  tangled  clutch 
Of  insidious  vines  overshadowed  the  vaporous  marsh 
By  the  turbid  inlet,  where  sullen  and  silent  the  ship 
Its  outlaw  commission  fulfilled  and  hastened  away 
Under  cover  of  darkness  to  deeds  of  piracy  new. 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  13 

Among  its  victims  there  crouched  an  emaciate  waif 
Of  a  differing  Afric  tribe  from  the  Gullah  race 
Whose   sable   descendants  enpeople  the  rice-field 

swamps 

Of  the  tide-water  district,  his  figure  lithe,  his  cheek 
Brown  as  the  hazel   whose  nuts  the  Autumn  hath 

kissed. 

Of  royal  lineage  he.     His  warrior  sire 
Held  tyrannous  sway  o'er  a  tribal  kingdom,  enriched 
By  savagery's  primitive  arts,  while  as  yet  exempt 
From  the  white  man's  curses  of  rum  and  the  slaver's 

trade. 
In  the  lap  of  the  wilderness  cradled,  kind  nature 

his  nurse, 

His  infant  playmates  the  beasts  of  the  jungle  wild, 
To  a  sturdy  stature  the  child  of  the  forest  grew. 
But  alas!  In  an  evil  moment  the  boy  with  the  king 
Went  forward  to  battle.   His  .mother  within  her  kraal 
May  mourn  unceasingly  now  for  her  dusky  son 
In  an  enemy's  toils  a  terrified  prisoner  held. 

By  leagues  of  weary  marching  the  captives  were  led 
Homesick  and  wretched  and  worn  to  the  Western 

Sea; 
Then  to  white-faced  fiends  were  sold,  whose  greed 

for  gain 
Made  mock  at  the  hellish  price.       By  night  they 

rowed 

To  a  waiting  vessel  whose  stifling  hold  made  room 
For  the  added  victims.     Becalmed  in  tropical  seas 


14  THE  STORY  OF  FOR  TVS, 

Through  four  long  weeks,  amid  starvation  and  filth 
And  the  pangs  of  thirst,  the  crowded  and  sickening 

ranks 
By    the   merciful    hand    of    death    were    speedily 

thinned. 

With  fever  consumed,  the  life  of  the  slave-boy  hung 
On  a  tenuous  thread.     But  at  last  a  vessel  of  war 
Gave  chase  to  the  lawless  ship  and  a  landing  forced 
In  the  hidden  inlet.     At  once  as  the  hold  disgorged 
Its  sorrowful  freight   on  the  bosom  of  life-giving 

Earth, 

Nature  recovered  her  own.     In  a  purer  air 
Life's  pulses  were  quickened,  and  unto  the  hapless 

child 
A  kindlier  prisonment  dawned. 

From  the  auction  block 
With  its  grim  allotments  of  chance,  the  alien  was 

borne 
Afar  from  the  mists  and  the  mire  of  the  sea-coast 

belt 
To   the   sand-hill   plantations   where    cotton   with 

clinging  fleece 

Whitens  the  summer  with  shearings  of  Nature's  fold; 
Where  in  shaded  covert  the   mocking-bird  warbles 

aloud 

Its  choicest  lays,  and  from  their  chalices  pure, 
The  polished  magnolias  sweeten  the  springtime  air 
With  perfume  of  incense.     Here  to  a  lordly  estate 
With  sullen  demeanor  concealing  a  quivering  pain, 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  15 

By  the  new-made  master  the  kidnapped  negro  was 

brought, 
To  meet  his  future  mission  and  destiny  fixed. 


Strange  the  reversals  of  fate;  from  a  savagery  free 
To  restrictions  of  civilized   life  in  the  chains  of  a 

slave. 

Was  it  the  plot  of  a  demon  ?  Or  trace  we  the  plan 
Of  a  merciful  Father  who  sought  to  succor  a  race 
From  a  heritage  pagan  ?  Silent  we  stand  in  amaze 
As  by  light  of  the  future  illumined  we  turn  to  review 
The  pregnant  occasions  where  once  humanity  stood, 
Deaf  to  the  issues  that  wait  on  a  moment's  decree, 
Blind  to  the  centres  where  pivot  the  crises  of  fate. 

Calling  from  pastime  his  eldest,  coequal  in  age 
As  in  stature,  the  planter  with  gesture  of  kindly 

command 
Led  forth  the  bewildered  child,  saying:  "  Rudolph, 

my  son, 
This  boy  is  your  vassal,  your  bidding  henceforth  is 

his  law, 

Sole  arbiter  thou  of  his  duties  and  discipline  meet. 
Yet  in  word  and  in  action  be  kind.     Let  mercy  be 

throned 
With  justice  its  twin  in  thy  governance  ever.     To 

you 
As  its  guardian  this  humbler  nature  in  keeping  is 


16  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

Then  care  for  it  well.     Nor  forget  that  here  dwell- 

eth  a  soul 

To  its  Maker  subject  alone.     To  its  welfare  be  true 
And  unto  your  servant,   provider,  protector,  and 

lord." 

Around  the  slave-boy  gathered  the  children  at  once 
With  eager  inquiry  of  parentage,  birthplace  and 

name. 
With   a   faltering   tongue   the   stranger   attempted 

reply, 

But  the  African  word  with  a  barbarous  accent  fell 
On  the  ears  of  the  rest;   and  when  to  pronounce 

it  they  tried 
It  sounded  like  Portus.      "  Portus,  indeed,  it  shall 

be," 
Cried  Rudolph.     Thus  was  the  name  decreed. 

These  two 
Master  and   servant,  perforce,  though  children  in 

years 

Entered  that  day  into  bonds  of  relationship  fraught 
With  issues  momentous  to  both.     Unto  which  was 

the  tie 
The   more   consequential?     Who   knoweth?      To 

each  henceforth 

Was  the  other  increasingly  needful.     Where  Ru- 
dolph was  found 

There  Portus  followed    him  close;    in  his  childish 
plays 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  17 

Sharing  with  equal  delight,  or  when  manlier  grown 
Attending  his  rambles  and  bearing  the  gun  and 

the  game 
On  obedient  shoulder  as  homeward  at  evening  they 

fared. 

His  humble  pallet  at  night  the  servant  would  lay 
At  the  foot  of  his  master's  bed  to  be  ready  at  dawn 
For  the  morning  tendance.     To  Portus  the  unused 

toy 
And  the  garment  half-worn  were  bequeathed,  and 

when  gifts  and  gains 

To  the  master  fell,  for  the  favored  slave  was  reserved 
A  generous  share.  'Twas  a  strange  and  anomalous 

lot; 
Best  friend   and   most  cherished  companion,  ever 

at  hand 

At  Rudolph's  desire,  yet  still  to  be  signalled  aside 
Whensoever  it  pleasured  his  whim;  but  with 

impulse  reverse 
To   be   promptly   summoned   again,  for   no   other 

could  know 
Like   Portus,   each   wavering   humor  and  wanton 

caprice. 
If  so  were  his  pleasure,  the  master  might  conqueror 

be 

In  every  contest.  For  what  hath  the  menial  to  do 
With  rivalry  equal  ?  Yet  still  it  was  trifling  despite 
To  the  chivalrous  Rudolph  not  seldom  to  yield  to 

the  slave 
The  fullest  meed  of  the  victor.     The   recognized 

sense 


i8  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

Of  responsible  lordship,  the  claims  of  the  weak  on 

the  strong 
Fired  the  conscience  and  heart  of  the  owner  with 

purposeful  wish 
To   render   the   servitude   happy.      The  word   of 

unkindness 
Gave  seldom  a  wound  that  could  rankle,  and  never 

in  truth 
Fell  the  heartless  blow. 

But  to  eyes  of  Portus  the  sun 
Found  rising  and  setting  in  Rudolph.    The  master's 

frown 
To  the  servant  was  dreariest  midnight,   his  favor 

was  dawn. 

But  time  made  a  wider  chasm.    When  the  planter's 

son 

Was  intrusted  to  tutors,  the  negro  was  steadily  set 
To  the  tasks  that  befitted  his  station,  and  quickly 

became 

In  the  ways  of  tillage  and  many  a  manual  art 
Abundantly    versed.      No   stint  of   the  guidance 

required 

To  fit  for  the  useful  life  that  alone  could  bestow 
True  honor  and  joy  in  the  lot  to  the  slave  ordained. 
But  still  it  was  Rudolph's  indulgence  at  night  to 

repeat 

His  lesson  again  to  the  eager  ear  of  the  servant 
Who  listened  with  grateful  attent,  in  the  wish  to 

become 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  19 

As  nearly  like  Rudolph  as  nature  and  circumstance 
gave. 

Though  the  vigilant  law  of  the  State  to  the  bond- 
man forbade 

The  dangerous  key  to  the  treasury-vaults  of  truth 

In  fear  to  engender  plotting  or  evil-content, 

Yet  a  household  attendant  like  Portus  might  safely 
be  taught 

By  the  planter's  children  to  read  and  to  write  in  the 
firm 

Conviction  that  personal  ties  gave  security's  pledge. 

Thus    Rudolph   grew   and    Portus   to   manhood's 

estate, 
In  a  mutual  affection,  enlinked  with  one  binding 

decree 

Like  the  law  of  the  Medes  and  the  Persians,  ac- 
knowledged by  both 
Yet  never  expressed,  the  law  that  the  will  of  the 

slave 
Must  be  merged  in  that  of  the  master.    Had  Portus 

resisted 
That  will  but  once  in  defiance,  could  nothing  have 

stayed 
The  vengeance  to  follow.     Submission  at  ultimate 

cost 
Must  be  exacted — yea, — unto  penance  of  death. 

Now  Portus  erelong  had  forgotten  his  African 
speech 


20  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

And  uttered  a  curious  dialect  mingled  of  those 

In  cabin  and  mansion.     With  deference  humble  the 

rest 

Regarded  his  loftier  station,  which  privilege  gave 
To  the  others  forbidden,  and  priceless  affection  and 

trust 
From  the  gentle  folk  whose  dominion  his  fealty 

owned. 

In  the  rule  of  the  cabins  his  mandate  authority  held 
Overtopped  by  the  master's  only,  his  pattern  and 

guide. 


In  a  tottering  hovel  beyond  the  plantation's  bound 
Black  Juniper   lived,   to  whom  an  old  planter  at 

death 

With     philanthropic    intent,    had   credentials    be- 
queathed 
Of  full   manumission.     Sometimes  on  a  Saturday 

night 
Free  Juny — for  thus   was   the  vagabond  called — 

would  sneak 
To  the  cabins  with  crestfallen  look  and  in  ragged 

attire, 

To  witness  the  weekly  carousals,  or  haply,  to  meet 
The  wench  that  gossip  had  titled   "Free   Juny's 

Jane." 

Owning  no  master  and  therefore  distrusted  alike 
By  black  man  and  planter,  the  waif  had  been  forced 

to  elect 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  it 

A  white  man  as  guardian,  whose  written  pass  might 

avail 
For  the  pledge  of  protection  as  aimlessly  hither 

and  yon 

He  shuffled  at  random  will.     No  station  for  such 
Could  society  offer,  a  creature  adrift,  the  best 
To  be  hoped  was  tolerance  merely.     No   portion 

had  he 

In  the  highborn  family  pride  that  exultantly  filled 
The  breast  of  the  humblest   dependant,   never  a 

friend 

Save  the  low-born  white  who  haply  might  harbor- 
age give. 

When  Portus  at  evening  had  glimpse  of  the  cow- 
ering form 

Stealing  with  hesitant  tread  by  the  sheltering  fence, 

His  eye  grew  alert.  Garden  and  henroost  were 
calling 

For  vigilance  keenest.     An  unslaved  African  held 

Motive  for  pillage  to  feudal  dependants  unknown. 

So  the  trusted  and  trustworthy  servant  his  master's 
estate 

Right  valiantly  guarded,  his  bosom  dilating  the 
while 

With  pride  in  the  family  prestige,  and  boundless 
contempt 

For  such  offscouring. 

His  master's  interest  thus 
Portus,  as  seasons  flew  by,  increasingly  felt 


22  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

His  intrusted  commitment,  his  master's  advantage 

the  sum 
Of  his  own  ambitions;   and  knew  no  existence  but 

this, 

And  felt  no  longing  for  other.     Nay,  are  we  sure  ? 
Sometimes  when  he  wandered  apart,  an  expression 

would  steal 

To  his  ox-like  eye,  a  suggestive  and  hovering  gleam 
Of  a  differing  life  condition,  the  elusive  sense 
Of  a  conscious  something,  a  dream  or  a  memory, 

which  ? 

Did  ever  a  yearning  vague  for  that  earlier  home 
Utter  faint  outcry  ?     Did  any  bewildering  ties 
Remain  unbroken  that  reached  to  that  glimmering 

past? 

At  last  the  plantation's  head  to  his  fathers'  dust 
Was  gathered;   and  then  Master  Rudolph  brought 

to  the  home 

A  maiden  the  fairest  in  all  that  country  that  dwelt. 
Then  Portus  opened  his  heart  to  a  larger  love 
And  to  his  young  mistress  devotion  more  absolute 

gave 
Than  to  any  beside. 

Suggested  the  planter  one  day 
' '  Portus,  do  likewise.    Why  not  ?     It  would  please 

me  well 
That  from  all  our  plantation  you  freely  select  for 

your  own 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  23 

A  comely  girl  and  gather  some  family  ties. 

Your  mistress's  maid,  pray,  is  she  not  fair  as  the 

eye 
Could   desire  ?  ' '       But   drearily   fell   the   refusing 

response. 
Then  roused  to  displeasure,  the  master  endeavored 

to  move 
His   servant's   reluctance:     till   Portus   in    deepest 

distress 
Said,    "No,   Massa  Rudolph.     I  eber  has  serbed 

yo'  true, 

But  fo'  yore  chillun  wid  better  liking  I  works 
Dan  fo'  darky  chillun.     So,  massa,   don'  urge  no 

mo', 

I  wants  no  wife.     Yore  fambly  plenty  fo'  me." 
And  the  master  stifled  his  anger  and  turned  him 

away 
And  let  his  servant  compass  his  will  in  this. 


Now  the  olive-branches  had  budded  and  clustered 

around 
The  household  roof-tree,   and  Portus  devoted  his 

heart 
And  his  hands  to  a  larger  service.     No  other  than 

he 
Might  attend  the  master  as  borne  by  the  prancing 

grays 
He  traversed  the  bounds  of  the  spacious  ancestral 

estate. 


24  THE  STORY  Of  PORTUS. 

Old  mistress  too  was  his  care;  no  arm  so  steady 
To  guide  the  old  lady's  uneven  and  lingering  steps 
Down  the  garden  walks  and  support  her  tremulous 
frame. 

But  unto  his  younger  mistress  as  bravely  she  took 
The  arduous  duties  that  fell  to  a  planter's  wife, 
His  worth  was  above  all  counting;  for  who  could 

advise 
Like  him,  as  in  care  conscientious  she  watched  o'er 

the  weal 
Of  the  manifold  weakling  souls  to  her  government 

given  ? 
All  the  cares  of  a  kingdom  were  hers,  with  Portus 

beside 
As  Counsellor  trusted  and  Officer  chief  of  State. 

Now  as  Rudolph's  children,  one  after  one,  began 

In  the  garden  to  toddle  and  sport  'mong  the  roses 
and  vines, 

It  was  Portus' s  dutiful  pleasure  to  guard  them  from 
harm, 

Obeying  their  childish  commands,  and  obeyed  by 
them 

In  turn;  and  he  cherished  them  all  as  his  own. 
Indeed, 

They  were  truly  his  only  own.  What  had  he  be- 
side? 

One  gentle  child  of  the  group  was  the  one  who  with 
tears 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  25 

Narrated  this  tale  by  the  flickering  firelight's  glow 
When  the  grave  had  closed  o'er  the  dutiful  servant's 
head. 


The  other  children  of  bondage  might  easily  bear 

A  dual  life;  to  their  owner's  service  and  weal 

One  nature  devoted,  the  other  with  ardor  engrossed 

In  cabin  pleasures,  enrooted  in  personal  ties. 

But  Portus, — none  had  he, — and  he  wished  for  none. 

At  the  quarters  on  Saturday  eve  or  in  Christmas 

week 

No  hand  so  skillful  to  pat  the  juba,  or  pick 
The  string  of  the  banjo,  the  black  man's  jovial  lute. 
At  times  he  would  lead  the  dance,  or  the  African 

songs 

Would  chant  in  resonant  tones  that  reluctantly  died 
In  a  doleful  cadence;  but  oftener  still  would  refuse, 
In  moodiest  silence  sitting  or  walking  apart. 
The  negroes  believed  him  peevish   and   haughty, 

uplifted 

By  loftier  service  and  home  neath  the  mansion  roof; 
And  the  white  folk  pitied,  and  said,  "  It  is  hard,  we 

know 

For  a  nigger  like  Portus,  but  so  is  his  station  or- 
dained." 
Sometimes  in  the  Sabbath  rest  he  would  linger  for 

hours 
On  the  turf  by  the  branch,  his  face  upturned  to  the 

sky. 


26  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

What  did  he  think  of  ?     Nay,  was  he  thinking  at 

all? 
What  engendered  these  moods  ?     What  hideth  the 

innermost  heart 

In  its  solitude  deep,  no  clue  unto  others  revealed  ? 
What  intricate  elements  enter  the  current  profound 
Of  onflowing  fancies  and  longings  that  ceaselessly 

glide 
Through  a  human  soul  ?     For  the  untaught  African 

slave 
What  thwarted  ambitions,  what  memories  well-nigh 

effaced 

Might  be  intermingled  ?     Could  aught  but  monoto- 
nous blank 
Fill  the  musings  of  him  who  could  hope  for  no 

change  or  advance 
In  his  life  conditions  ? 

One  morning  the  mistress  said, 
' '  What  is  it,  Portus,  my  boy  ?     Would  you  fain  be 

free? 
To  purchase  your  ransom  then,  we  might  give  you 

the  chance; 
Though  ill  can  your  labor   be  spared,   we   might 

change  it  perhaps 
To  a  service  for  wage,  if  liberty  be  your  desire." 

"Naw,   missus,  naw.     De  free  nigger,   wat  kin  'e 

do? 
He  hab  no  place  nor  'tachment.     Nobody  keers 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  27 

Fur  de  free  nigger,  nohow." 

"  You  might,  if  you  chose,  go  North 
If  freedom  were  given." 

"  Naw,  missus,  I  wants  it  not, 
De  Norf  is  a  stranger  Ian',  an  'tis  col'  in  heart 
Like  'tis  in  sunshine.     Yo  an'  de  chillun  am  all 
Dat  I  hab  to  lub  an  to  work  foV 

The  mistress  again, 
"  Is  it  Africa  then  that  you  long  for  ?     Would  you 

return 
To  the  home  of  your  fathers  ?  ' ' 

1 '  Nebber, ' '  said  Portus,  aghast, 
"  I'se  a  Christian  man.     In  de  sabage  wilderness 

now 

Dey  is  naught  fo'  me.  Mos'  like  my  fambly  dead, 
An  Portus  would  starb  an'  die.  No  Ian'  saving  dis 
Hab  I  now.  De  Souf  is  my  home,  an  here  mus'  I 

stay." 

But  the  mistress  still,  ' '  There  is  nothing  you  think 

of  that  we 
Can  alter?     You're  sure  that  freedom  you  do  not 

wish?" 

"  Naw,  missus,  I'se  thankfuller  jus'  to  b'long  to  you. 
Now  I'b  no  need  to  worrit  mysef  wid  accounts, 


28  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

Nor  to  pester  my  mind  'bout  de  time  wen  de  rheu- 

matiz  come 
To  tie  dese  ol'  shoulders  an  back  wid  de  misery." 

Thus 
The  kind  and  compassionate  friends  could  nothing 

supply 

Save  pitying  love  to  the  humble  soul  that  perchance 
Was  pining  for  what  he  knew  not. 

Often  at  night 
When  armed  with  his  master's  pass  the  servant  was 

sent 

As  a  messenger  trusted  for  many  a  household  need, 
He  fancied  how  strangely  good  it  would  seem  to  go 

forth 

His  own  director  the  while.     Yet  his  physical  needs 
Were  supplied  to  the  full.    No  lack  of  raiment  and 

food, 

With  tenderest  nursing  for  trifling  ailments, — yes, 
And  staunchest  devotion  bestowed  by  the  childish 

group 

Of  his  domineering  and  faithful  followers.     So 
In  a  gilded  prison  his  life  went  silently  on. 

Under  shadowing  oaks  the   master  a  chapel   had 

built 
For  plantation  worship.     Here  weekly,  on  Sabbath 

morn, 
The  mistress  came  with  her  gentle  presence  to  teach 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  29 

These  ignorant  ones  of  God  and  Heaven  and  Christ. 
Sometimes  a  traveling  preacher  pursuing  his  round 
Of  mission  endeavor  would  offer  his  service  to 

preach 

To  the  cabin  people,  and  gladly  was  ever  received. 
But  at  last  one  day  from  Yankee-land  there  arrived 
One  who  in  priestly  guise  did  scatter  the  seeds 
Of  murmuring  and  revolt.  The  planters  were  roused. 
With  threats  of  his  life  they  drove  the  invader  away 
Who  thus  could  abuse  hospitality's  sacredest  claim. 
But  the  preacher  departing  a  dangerous  volume  had 

left 
(A  tale  of  slavery's  wrongs,  that  had  roused  the 

world) 

Hid  in  the  chapel;  and  Portus  discovered  and  read. 
Was  this  the  book  he  had  angrily  heard  discussed 
By  the  white  folk  last  autumn  ?   <(  A  dastardly  lie," 

they  declared. 
And  to  Portus  it  seemed  most  unreal.      Could  such 

things  exist  ? 

And  yet  what  mysterious  cord  did  it  vibrate  within, 
This  story  so  strange  ?  No  cruelty  e'er  had  he  felt. 
Yet  he  knew  in  his  innermost  soul  that  should  the 

dim  thoughts 

By  the  book  suggested  be  openly  told,  on  his  head 
Would  punishment  fall,  severer  by  far  than  he  ever 
Had  suffered  or  feared.      And  so  he  stifled  his  mu- 
sings 
And  buried  the  book,  nor  revealed  at  the  cabins  one 

word 


30  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

Of  its  dangerous  import. 

The  planters  with  spirit  declared, 
' '  If  that  Yankee  traitor  be  found  in  these  borders 

again, 
There's  a  limb  and  a  halter  ready." 

Again  they  affirmed, 
"  Our  slaves  must  be  carefully  taught  to  assist  them 

to  fill 
Their  stations  with  happiness  here,  and  to  fit  them 

for  Heaven. 

To  these  foreign  intruders  no  more  will  we  harbor- 
age give, 
But   Christian  preachers  among  us  shall  fittingly 

teach 
The  slaves  in  our  chapels  their  duty.     So  came  they 

forthwith 

Bishop  and  Elder, — many  a  learned  Divine, — 
Making  their  circuits.       Sometimes  on  the  Sabbath 

morn 

And  again  mid-week,  the  great  bell  sounded  its  peal; 
Then  all  on  the  old  plantation — white-featured  or 

black- 
Laid  for  the  time  their  labors  and  pleasures  aside, 
While  with  fervent  exhortings  the  preachers  showed 

to  the  slaves 
How  Jesus  was  lord  of  their  souls,  and  if  they  were 

washed 

In  the  blood  of  the  Lamb  and  in  service  were  faith- 
ful and  true, 


THE  STORY  OF  FOR  TVS.  31 

That  the  mansions  of  Heaven  were  ready  for  them 

at  the  last. 
And  the  children  of  servitude  gladly  the  message 

received, 
Committing  their  souls  to  Heaven    (to  escape  from 

Hell), 
And  finding  religious  joy. 

But  doth  it  surprise 
That  when  the  proclaiming  of  liberty  loosened  the 

bond 
That  bound  them  so  long  to  these  masters,  religion 

was  found 
From    the   moral   code   in  their   minds   too   often 

divorced  ? 
These  who  no  riches  had  owned,  should  they  rightly 

discern 
Betwixt  mine  and  thine?      The  equivocal  ties  of 

marriage 
That  might  by  the  auction  mart  be  dissevered  at 

will, 
Can  we  marvel  much  that  still  they  should  fail  to 

bind  ? 
Nay,  it  is  not  strange.      Its   moral  perceptions  the 

world 
Hath  by  ages  of  tutelage  gained,  and  each  ignorant 

soul 

And  degraded  race  through  discipline  only  can  rise 
To  a  moral  manhood.     Yet  faith  and  devotion  were 

born 


32  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

In  these  childlike  hearts  that  so  readily  learned  to 

rejoice 
In  Jesus  and  Heaven. 

From  the  preachers  Portus  had  learned 
To  exhort  with  fervor;   with    marvellous    unction 

could  sway 
The  souls  of  his  hearers.       No  other  so  quickly 

could  move 

The  hearts  of  women  devout  unto  exstacy's  thrill, 
Till  they  swooned  in  religious  trance. 

But  the  mistress  had  said, 
When  the  chill  of  November  had  ushered  the  busiest 

month 

Of  all  the  twelve;  when  the  holiday  season  ahead 
And  the  smokehouse  duties  to  furnish  abundant 

supply 
For  the  food  of  the  year  were  engrossing  the  labors 

of  all, 
"You  must  not,   Portus,   at  present.      It  renders 

unfit 
For  the  needful  and  arduous  tasks  that  the  season 

doth  bring. 
Its  fitting  time  hath  religion.       For  that  you  must 


Sometimes  when  a  wrestling  hour  had  been  valiantly 

passed 
The   dusky   visage   would    gloomier   grow.       Not 

then 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  33 

Could  the  arts  of  the  children  awaken  a  smile,  nor 

cajole 
To  the  nursery  stories  of  rabbit-foot  charms,  and 

the  tale 
How  Jack  o'  My  Lantern  had  once  disclosed  to  his 

eyes 
Direst  events  to  happen. 

But  to  usual  mood 

Returning  full  soon,  he  loftily  honored  his  station, 
Chief  factor  in  all  the  affairs  of  this  feudal  realm, 
This  monarchy  small  that  was  ruled  by  an  absolute 

power. 
But  stay, — What  said  I  ?      Was  absolute  power 

ever  given 
To  mortal   intrustment?     No   bond   or  restriction 

imposed  ? 
On  a  neigboring  plantation  to  Rudolph's,  the  owner 

was  known 
Far  and  near  as  a  merciless  master.     No  stigma 

more  foul 
Than  that  one  to  whom  God  had  committed  the 

fostering  care 
Of  fellow- creatures   less   favored,   should   recreant 

prove 
To  the  trust  divine. 

One  day  it  was  whispered  abroad 
That  a  dreadful  deed,  more  dire  than  the  sensitive 
tongue 


34  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

Could  frame  into  words,  in  that  planter's  name  had 
been  done 

By  an  overseer  hired.  Like  the  flash  of  a  turpen- 
tine flame 

Was  the  feeling  enkindled,  till  retribution  severe 

From  the  outraged  community  fell  on  their  infamous 
heads. 

Then  the  planters  in  fellowship  gathered,  cemented 
a  pledge 

That  the  soil  of  their  State  should  be  sacred  from 
tyranny's  stain. 

So  willed  they,  and  thus  kept  oppression  and  cruelty 
down. 

One  autumn  a  visitor  honored,  a  lady  of  thoughtful 
And   dignified  mien,   from  her   far  away  English 

abode 
Came    to    Rudolph's   mansion,   whose   welcoming 

doors  swung  wide. 
On  the  latticed  piazza  at  evening  she  sat  with  her 

host 
In  converse  familiar.     His  sons  so  handsome  and 

brave 
And  his  fair- haired  girls  under  blossoming  rose-trees 

played. 
' '  These  children  are  blest  with  a  beautiful  home, ' ' 

she  said, 
"And  happy  is  their  allotment." 

' '  Thinkest  thou  so  ?  " 
The  planter  replied,  "  Not  seldom  I  tremble  to  think 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  35 

One  thought  for  the  future.     The  Lord  foreseeth, 

not  I. 

But  near  a  volcano's  crater,  though  dormant  as  yet, 
Our  home  hath  been  built,  and  mutterings  now  may 

be  heard 

Of  the  fearful  explosion  that  on  us  may  finally  burst. 
With  gloomy  foreboding  the  lives  of  my  children  I 

watch. 
What   fate   will   their    future   know  ?      Will    they 

worthily  meet 
The  crisis  that  surely  must  come,  God  knoweth  how 

soon? 

Perhaps  before  ever  their  innocent  hearts  are  inured 
To  the  desperate  conflicts  of  life.     But  our  hands 

are  fettered; 

Our  duty  is  clear.     At  every  hazard  we  must 
The  social  order  preserve  and  protect  our  homes. 
Not  for  a  moment's  reprieve  may  our  leaders  relax 
The  vigilant  watch  which  alone  is  our  safety's  price, 
Eternal  warfare  waged,  whatever  the  cost, 
Against  alien  intrigues  that  threat  to  engulf  us  all. 
But  the  dangers  are  thickening  about  us.     Incendi- 
aries try 
To  arouse  to  rebellion   our  servants.     A  cowardly 

part 
Their  pretensions  are  playing,  with  envy  and  avarice 

mixed. 
Mark  the   ways   of    these   ignorant   servants,   this 

childish  race, 
Yesterday  savages  wild,  but  to-day  brought  close 


36  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

To  Christian  truth  and  the  comforts  of  civilized  life. 
How  else  than  through  slavery's  school  had  they 

ever  been  reached 
By  the  white  man's  uplifting  touch  and  the  gospel's 

power  ? 

Surely  beneath  the  sun  there  hath  never  been  seen 
A  happier  people,  a  safer  allotment  than  theirs, 
Shelter  and  food  unfailing,  and  freedom  entire 
From  anxious  thought  for  every  to-morrow's  need; 
And  the  Lord's  best  bestowment, — labor  adapted  so 

well 
To  their  strength  and  their  mental  resource,  in  a 

generous  soil, 

And  a  genial  climate,  Nature's  beneficent  gifts. 
Visit  the  quarters  at  evening  when  labor  is  done 
And  list  to  their  joyous  carousals.      They  seldom 

are  sick 
And  sorrow  and  anger  are  transient.       Witness  the 

joy 

Their  religion  afFordeth.     If  lost  for  an  instant  their 

hope, 
Forthwith  on  the  next  Lord's  Day  they  regain  it 

with  ease. 

Not  a  fear  for  time  or  eternity  vexeth  their  hearts. 
Yet   traitorous   men   of  the   North   seek   entrance 

among  us 
To  make  these  wretched,   by  rousing  within  them 

desires 
To  be  soon  disappointed,   and  forcing  us  ever  to 

make 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  37 

Restrictions  more  heavy.  But  truly  oppression  is 
rare 

In  our  borders.  Bethink  you,  indeed,  why  should 
any  exist  ? 

Even  selfish  advantage  alone  might  for  motive  suffice 

To  lead  us  to  kindness.  We  cherish  the  beasts  that 
we  own; 

Still  more  fellow-creatures  immortal  intrusted  by  God 

To  our  training  and  government.  Unto  His  Judge- 
ship  alone 

Our  sole  account  will  we  render." 


And  Portus  heard 
And  pondered  in  silence. 

Answered  the  visitor  then, 
"Is  it  everywhere  so  in  the  Southland  ?  ' ' 

' '  Perhaps  not,  indeed, ' ' 
The  planter  replied,  "  There  is  cruelty  shown,  it  is 

said, 

In  the  lowlying  tidewater  sections  of  sugar  and  rice 
Whose  rank  miasma  the  white  man  scarcely  can 

breathe. 

The  salaried  overseer  truly  doth  sometimes  rule 
With  a  rigorous  hand.      For  the  hireling  can  never 

be  bound 
By  those  personal  ties  the  inheriting  master  doth 

feel 
For  his  homeborn  dependants.     Coarsened  natures 

are|  those, 


38  THE  STORY  OF  PORT  US. 

Though  of  Saxon  ancestry  born,  who  would  choose 
for  hire 

A  task  so  debasing.      And  haply  most  brutal  of  all 

Is  the  negro  oppressor,  when  set  by  his  owner  to 
rule 

O'er  his  fellows.    Then  doth  tyranny  flourish  indeed. 

That  the  system  doth  harbor  its  faults,  I  acknowl- 
edge with  pain. 

It  giveth  a  power  that  the  despot  will  sometimes 
abuse; 

Round  the  necks  of  the  masters  it  hangeth  a  bur- 
densome load 

Too  heavy,  well  nigh,  for  humanity's  strength  to 
endure. 

I  devoutly  wish  we  were  able  to  rid  us  at  once 

Of  this  vast,  half-imbecile  horde  that  so  weightily 
rests 

On  our  hands  and  our  hearts.  But  human  systems 
are  ever 

Imperfect.  For  us  there  remaineth  no  way  of  es- 
cape. 

Our  Maker  hath  placed  them  among  us.  Without 
our  choice 

In  the  midst  of  this  social  order  our  lot  hath  been 
cast; 

And  so  we  must  struggle  to  fill  our  appointed  place, 

To  rule  our  servants  with  wisdom,  and  save  our 
State 

From  anarchy's  threat.  But  I  dare  not  look  to  the 
end. 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  39 

Even  now  low   rumblings   prelude   the   gathering 

storm. 

And  if  it  burst, — ah,  well, — we  can  survive 
Perhaps.     But  what  can  succor  that  helpless  race  ?  ' ' 

Thus  many  a  master  reasoned.       But  who   shall 

contend 

Against  the  decrees  ordained  ?     The  eternal  truth 
That  every  soul  in  its  Maker's  image  created 
Holdeth  inherent  right  in  its  personal  life 
Nor  can  truly  be  owned  by  another, — this  small 

stone 
Cut  without  hands  from  the  mountain,  was  destined 

to  grow 

And  to  fill  the  earth;  till  at  length  the  image  tall, 
An  intricate  social  system,  powerful  and  proud, 
Should  be  ground  to  the  dust  beneath  it. 

Louder  were  heard 
The  threatenings  of  trouble,  and  in  their  revengeful 

wake 
Came   failure   and  panic;   till   Master  Rudolph  at 

length 

Saw  poverty's  straits  before  him.     His  menials  now 
Had  grown  too  many  and  costly.       He  scarcely 

could  care 
For   them    all.      And  creditors  pressed.      Yet  he 

painfully  shrunk 
From  the  household  dismembering.   In  truth,  hardly 

better  it  seemed 


40  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

To  his  sensitive  nature  than  parting  with  children 
and  wife, 

But  driven  to  final  distress,  he  summoned  the  slaves 

And  told  to  them  frankly  the  trouble  his  vision  fore- 
saw. 

Yet  he  promised,  "  I  never  will  part  the  ones  near- 
est of  kin, 

Nor  needlessly  heartbreak  give.  But  those  who 
have  formed 

Slender  personal  ties,  stern  fate  may  enforce  me  to 
sell 

For  the  requisite  payment  of  legal  and  righteous 
claims." 


Then  the  servants,  excited  and  trembling,  pleaded 

with  tears, 
"  Naw,    Massa    Rudolph, — sell   us   not   from   our 

home. 
We'se  work  de  harder,  fur  true,  an'  we'se  eat  de 

less; 
An'  we'se  holp  you  through  dis  yh'  trouble." 

And  Portus  came, 

With  affrighted  look,  and  in  choking  voice  he  im- 
plored 

"  Massa,  yo  knows  dat  I  hab  nary  chick  nor  chile; 

But  yours,  Mass'  Rudolph,  are  mine,  and  I  mightily 
hopes 

Dat  yo'  will  not  sen'  me  from  dem.     I  sh'd  die." 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  41 

"No,  that  I  will  not,  Portus,"  the  planter  replied, 

"And  indeed  I  could  not  spare  you." 

Thus  that  day 

The  master  gave   to   his   servants   a   pledge   and 
avowed, 

"Your  fate  is  inwoven  with  mine."     A  few  whose 
wives 

Or  husbands  served  upon  other  plantations,  to  these 

Were  removed,  themselves  and  the  owners  consent- 
ing; except 

For  this,  the  household  remained  intact. 

At  last 

A  rumor  arose,  and  increased  to  a  marvelous  tale 
That  a  bold  fanatic,  called  Brown  of  Kansas,  had 

shapen 

A  hellish  plot  to  incite  the  negroes  to  rise 
And  to  murder  the  Ruling  Race.    It  was  whispered 

low 
Lest  suspicion  should  reach  the  cabins.     But  Portus 

was  sent 
That  night  to  the  neighboring  village,  and  tidings 

vague 
To  his  ear  were  drifted.     Returning,  no  hint  nor 

word 
He  told  at  the  quarters,  but  straight  to  the  master 

went. 

Unwonted  fire  in  his  eye  was  kindled;  his  lip 
And  his  form  were  quivering.      "  Massa,"  he  cried, 

1 '  Dey  say 


42  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

Dat  at  las'  de  Yankees  hab  foun'  out  a  plan  fur  to 

mek 
De  black  man  free." 

"  Indeed,  and  who  told  you  that?  " 
Scornful  the  master  answered,  not  as  his  wont 
To  reply  to  Portus.     "  Pshuh!   a  tattler's  tale, 
A  madman's  trick!     A  devilish  frenzy  hath  fouled 
The  land.     But  hark  ye!  Ye  need  not  think  it  can 

aught 
Achieve.     Such  dastard  crime  'gainst  the  laws  of 

the  States 
Were   folly.       But  hush,  you  fool,   and  see  to   it 

well 
That  you  blab  not  a  word  in  the  quarters. ' ' 

Trembling  still 

Answered  the  negro,    ' (  Massa,  yo'  do  me  wrong. 
I  hab  not  tole,  an'  I  promise  dey  shall  not  know. ' ' 

Then  the  master,  relenting,  spoke  with  a  kindlier 

tone, 
"  In  truth,  do  you  wish  it,  Portus  ?     Would  you  be 

free?" 

' '  Naw,  Massa,  it  am  not  fer  me,  an'  I  wants  it  not. 

Yet  still,  I  tink,  if  'twar  diffunt,  den,  perhaps 

I  would  lub  fur  awile  to  wish  an'  to  choose,  an'  to 

hab 

De  ownership  true  ob  mysef.     But  we  all  mus'  tek 
De  place  dat  de  Lord  hab  giben." 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  43 

"But  tell  me,  Portus, 
What  is  it  you  want  ?     Am  I  ever  unkind  ?     What 

more 
Could  liberty  give  you  ?  ' ' 

'*  O  massa,"  the  slave  replied, 
"  Yo'  hab  allus  been  kin'  an'  protectin'.     But  yet  I 

keep  wishin' 

Dat  it  all  war  diffunt  somehow."     A  shining  tear 
Trickled  down  the  dusky  cheek  as  he  turned  away. 

But  blacker  the  war-clouds  grew,  and  the  gathering 

storm 
That  alone  could  lighten  the  firmament  thundered 

at  last 

In  fury  terrific  to  rage  till  the  land  had  been  washed 
From  the  stain  of  a  national  sin.     Then  mid  fast 

falling  tears 

The  bow  of  Liberty's  promise  illumined  the  heavens. 
Now  the  master  buckled  his  sword,  and  departing 

he  said, 

"Portus,  my  faithful  boy,  to  your  hands  I  commit 
The  care  of  this  home  and  its  burden  of  lives  so 

precious. ' ' 
And  the  negro's  manhood  at  thought  of  the  weighty 

intrustment 
Awoke   in   his   bosom.     With   choking    voice   he 

replied, 
"Nebber  yo'   fear,  Mass'  Rudolph,  I'se  tek  good 

keer 
Ob  Mis'  Lucy  an'  all  de  chillum.     Dey's  safe  wid 


44  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

History   hath   written   that   during    those    terrible 

years 
Of  hatred  and  bloodshed  with  menace  of  famine 

before, 

On  many  a  lone  plantation,  innocent  babes 
And  tender  women  to  hardship  and  toil  unused, 
Waited  and  prayed  for  husband  or  sire  or  son, 
Protector  and  prop,  who  with  grim  foreboding  had 

left 
His  cherished  ones  far  from  the  touch  of  a  human 

hand 

Or  other  guardian  and  help  than  the  African  slave, 
Whose  liberty  thus  by  a  nation's  blood  was  bought. 
To  the  faithful  hands  of  its  bondsmen  the  stricken 

South 

In  its  desperate  strait  did  its  treasures  all  commit. 
Their  willing  labor  alone  did  supply  the  food 
That    fed   the   armies   abroad  and    sustained   the 

homes. 
Through  four  long  years  of  privation  and  painful 

suspense 
They  faltered  not  nor  betrayed  the  responsible  trust. 

Now  freedom  at  last  was  proclaimed  by  the  Nation's 
Head 

As  the  law  of  the  land.  And  though  no  fruition 
appeared 

For  many  a  month,  yet  among  the  slaves  its  rumor 

Was  vaguely  whispered,  a  legend  not  well  under- 
stood, 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  45 

Or  but  dimly  believed.    At  night  by  the  fires  of  the 

cabin, 

When  ghostly  visions  and  ancient  mysterious  tales 
With  hesitant  voice  were  repeated,  the  fancy  would 

dwell 
On  the  wonderful  theme.     Was   it   something   to 

hope  or  to  fear  ? 

What  was  this  freedom  ?   A  Paradise  here  on  earth, 
Where  the  darkies  would  all  be  rich,  and  would 

never  again 
Be   forced   to   labor?      Or  was   it  as   white   men 

declared 
A    devilish  plotting  of  Yankees  with   horns    and 

hoofs, 

A  scheme  to  murder  the  Masters,  to  take  their  lands, 
And  enslave  the  blacks  in  a  bondage  crueller  far 
That  they  ever  had  felt  ?     It  seemed  to  their  fancy 

akin 
To  the  Judgment  Day  with  its  visions  wondrously 

mixed 
Of  heavenly  crowns  and  sulphurous  gulfs  of  fire. 

The  final  winter  had  come  and  the  boasts  of  success 
Grew  ever  more  loud  as  the  famished  and  desperate 

South 

Strove  in  vain  to  recover  its  failing  hope  and  escape 
The  defeat  impending.      The  air  with  rumor  was 

thick 
Of  Sherman  advancing,   the  track  of  his  warlike 

sycthe 


46  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

A  desolate  swath  through  the  heart  of  their  beautiful 

State, 
Filled  with  smoking  cities  and  homes  to  pillage 

given  over. 

Then  the  direful  news  that  the  capital  city,  the  pride 
Of  all  hearts,  lay  in  ruin  of  ashes;  its  homeless  souls 
Left  starving  and  helpless;  that  now  the  revaging 

host 
Were  moving  to  northward;  that  in  a  brief  time  they 

would  pass 

Near  Rudolph's  plantation,  where  Portus,  the  faith- 
ful slave 
At  his  mistress's  bidding  made  ready  with   haste  to 

protect 
His  master's  domain  from    the  ruthless  invader's 

power. 

Unrest  had  corrupted  the  quarters.  This  turbulent 
year 

Those  who  fain  would  escape  from  labor  had  wan- 
dered away; 

While  a  few  at  the  claims  of  war  were  reluctantly 
sent 

To  the  auction  mart,  sowing  seeds  of  fear  and  dis- 
trust 

Among  those  who  were  left. 

Now  tumult  and  tremor  beset 
The  unhappy  plantation,  as  aged  and  young,  black 
and  white, 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  47 

For  the  enemy  strove  to  prepare.    To  the  thickest 

grove 
Of  the  forest,   with  provident  haste  the  horses  and 

mules 
Were  driven.     In  the  garden  depths  the  silver  they 

buried, 
And  rilled  with  food  and  with  treasure  each  secretest 

nook. 
So  made  they  ready. 

Then  bravely  the  mistress  assembled 
The  household  servants  at  first,  and  she  said,  "To- 
night 

The  Northern  army  comes  and  will  doubtless  declare 
That  you  now  are  free.  No  struggle  longer  I  make. 
Choose  each  for  himself.  But  know  that  you  all  are 

dear 
To  my  heart,  and  that  if  you  remain  I  will  do  the 

best 
That  I  can  for  your  future." 

With  instant  accord  they  replied, 
"  We'se  stay  wid  you  eber,    Mis'  Lucy.     We  don' 

wanter  go. ' ' 

So  said  they  at  first;  but  later  did  many  repent, 
And  recklessly  wandered  at  will.     But  Portus  drew 

near 
Saying,    "  Yo'   an'  de  chillun,  Missus,  am  allus  my 

own 
An'my  only  frens.     I  eber  is  yours  until  death." 


48  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

"  God  bless  you,    Portus,"  was  all  that  the  mistress 
said. 


And  now  she  gave  bidding  that  all  the  plantation 
people 

Before  the  piazza  should  gather;  then  firmly  de- 
clared, 

' '  The  Yankee  army  approacheth.     You  all  are  free. 

No  service  longer  I  claim."     A  silence  profound 

As  the  hush  of  the  grave  on  the  group  for  a  moment 
fell; 

Then  some  of  them  laughed  and  shouted,  while 
others  wept, 

And  all  in  wonder  awaited  what  next  should  befall. 

Now  came  the  advancing  host  and  a  Major  tall 
Rode  up  to  the  door  of  the  mansion  and  making 

salute 
Said,    "Madam,  be  not  alarmed.     No  harm  shall 

arrive 
To  you  or  your  household ;  but  food  for  our  soldiers 

and  beasts 
We  are  forced  to  take.     I  will  station  a  guard  to 

to  protect 
From  all  needless  pillage. ' ' 

The  lady  haughtily  bowed. 

' '  We  are  at  your  mercy,  "she  said.  Then  turning  she 
passed 


THE  STORY  OF  FOR  TVS.  49 

To  an  upper  room  where  her  children  were  gathered 

in  fear, — 
That  she  might  not  witness  the  rifling  of  her  home. 

Now  Portus  kept  watch  all  night  at  his  mistress's 

door. 

"  Here,  you  fool  nigger,  come,  will  you  go  with  us?" 
A  corporal  asked,  "  We'll  give  you  a  uniform  blue, 
And  make  you  a  man,  by  a  better  species  of  work 
Than  the  service  of  rebel  women. ' ' 

The  dilated  eye 

For  an  instant  flashed:  his  figure  grew  more  erect. 
Not  freedom,  but  manhood,  a  moment's  temptation 

gave. 
Then  the  passive  mien  came  back.    "  Naw,  boss," 

he  said, 
"I'se  promise'   to  stay  by  Mis'  Lucy  an'  tek  good 

keer 
Ob  de  house  an  de  chillun." 

Next  morning  the  straggling  squads 
Of  detested  bluecoats  had  passed.     But  the  wrecks 

remained. 
All  was  dismal  and  bare.     Full  half  the  plantation's 

force 

Eager  to  taste  of  the  newfound  freedom  had  fol- 
lowed 

The  wake  of  the  army.     A  glittering  bauble  now 
Did  this  boon  of  liberty  seem  to  their  curious  eyes; 


50  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

Nor  recked  they  of  ills  they  must  suffer  before  they 

should  learn 
To  prize  it  indeed  at  its  worth.     For  the  present  it 

seemed 
Like  permission  for  leisure  and  wandering,  treasures 

of  gold 
To  be  had  for  the  asking,  license  unchecked  for 

whatever 
Their  baser  natures  might  prompt. 

In  the  mind  of  the  child 

While  subject  as  yet  to  his  tutors  we  seek  to  instill 
The  rules  for  self-governing  action,   and  labor  to 

make 

The  practice  a  gradual  habit,  lest  fettered  too  much 
In  his   tutelege   early,   at   last   when   arriveth  the 

time 

For  manlier  effort,  the  unused  powers  should  react 
In  a  warring  chaos.     Of  millions  of  slaves  in  our 

land 
On  whom  without  warning  the  sunrise  of  freedom 

arose, 

With  resolute  stride  a  few  forth-started  at  once 
On  the  road  to  a  vigorous  manhood.      But  truly  to 

most 

The  boastful  gift  of  liberty  proved  at  the  first 
A  pitfall  wherein    they  stumbled;    out  of   whose 

depths 
Some  struggled; — but  others  alas,  were  powerless 

to  rise. 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  51 

Then  shall  we  say  it  were  best  that  it  had  not  been  ? 
But  no, — a  thousand  noes, — it  is  only  by  pangs 
Of  human  distress  that  a  human  soul  can  begin 
Its  earthly  career.     Nor  is  ever  an  epoch  born 
But   by  throes  convulsive  and   laboring    pains    of 

birth. 

And  liberty  then  a  stalwarth  manchild  proved 
At  whose  natal  hour  was  a  nation's  agony  paid 
For  its  deliverance, — yea,  and  was  added  still 
Full  many  an  after-pang  before  healing  came. 
Was  the  price  too  costly  ?  Nay,  if  the  Lord  be  true, 
And  if  He  ruleth  the  nations,  dare  not  we 
To  deny  His  wisdom  and  love  in  the  stress  and  the 

strain 
That  shook  the  civilized  world  when  in  fulness  of 

time 
Salvation  was   born   upon   earth  for  two  races  in 

thrall. 

Now  following  on  apace  came  the  final  crash. 

Richmond  had  fallen,  Lee  surrendered.     All 

The  treasure  and  heartbreak  and  blood  had  been 
given  for  naught. 

Ere  long  came  the  master,  wounded  and  helpless 
home, 

From  the  sufferings  of  hospital  prison  at  last  re- 
leased ; 

With  his  riches  vanished,  his  vigor  of  youthful  zeal 

Departed  forever,  his  home  and  plantation  a 
wreck. 


52  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

Nor  could  former   experience  shed  an   illumining 

light 
On  the  future   forlorn   into   which   so   blankly   he 

gazed. 
Stricken  and    stunned    for  awhile    the   household 

sat; 
Then  wearily  summoned  their  strength  to  attempt 

to  restore 
The  semblance  at  least  of  a  home. 

But  to  Portus  withal 
Life  gathered  new  meanings.     Labor  indeed  was 

no  less, 
Nay,  heavier  now  than  of  old.     He  accepted  no 

wage, 
And  his  homely  allotment  by  meanlier  comfort  was 

graced. 
Yet  he  felt  that  the  service  was  joyfuller.     It  was 

free. 

Responsibility  now  had  impressed  the  seal 
Of  manhood  upon  his  soul. 

He  had  wisely  been  taught 
Those  industrial  habits  and  arts  of  manual  skill 
Which  provident  planters  were  wont  to  instill  in 

the  minds 
Of  their  chosen  dependants.     Each  lone  plantation 

supplied 

Of  well-trained  artisans  alway  an  adequate  force 
For  the  household's  inherent  demands.     When  the 

merciless  bolts 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  53 

Of  war  had   fallen,   the  favored   of  fortune   were 

these. 

While  others  both  Saxon  and  African,  stood  in  de- 
spair, 
Such  souls  held  resources  within,  that  naught  could 

deprive 

Of  their  measureless  worth.     So  to  Portus  the  priv- 
ilege blessed 
Was  given  to  succor  from  want  the  household  he 

loved. 

But  shortly  the  idling  bands  who  at  Liberty's  birth 
Threw  away  the  hoe,  expecting  thereafter  to  lie 
In  the  lap  of  luxury — labor  forever  aside — 
Came  back  from  their  wanderings,  having  discov- 
ered how  poor 
Was  the  gift  of  freedom  they  knew  not  at  present 

to  use 

To  final  advantage.     Some  back  to  the  mansion- 
house  came, 

Nigh  ready  to  sue  for  enslavement  again,  if  but  so 
They  might  sustenance  freely  receive  at  another's 

hand. 

And  many  fell  ill  and  died.  And  some  even  blamed 
Old  Father  Abram  himself  that  he  made  them  free, 
But  unto  the  boon  no  bequest  of  wealth  had  added. 

Could  other  than  this  have  been  hoped  for?     Israel 

of  old 
Escaped    from    Egyptian   bondage,    yet  failing   of 

rest 


54  THE  STORY  OF  PORT  US. 

In  the  land  of  promise  and  hope,   for  the  fleshpots 

sighed 
That  their  servitude  nourished.     And  so  these  dusky 

sons 

Of  a  later  release  ungrateful  murmurings  mingled 
With  true  thanksgivings.     Yet  still  unto  most  such 

thoughts 

Were  transient,  if  tolerant  harborage  ever  they  found. 
Few  of  them  all  would  this  dear-bought  freedom 

have  sold 
For  a  mess  of  pottage,   though  laid  at  starvation's 

door. 
Millions  of   ignorant    souls,   they   were    suddenly 

launched 
Without  rudder  or  pilot  or  stores  for  the  journey' s 

need 
On  an  unexplored  ocean,  endangered  with  shallows 

and  rocks. 
Yet  in  spite  of  the  wrecks  that  have  perished,  and 

breakers  before, 
What  advancement  is  theirs!     In  all  its  annals  the 

world 
Such  progress  hath  never  recorded  in  space  so  brief. 

But  those  were  dispiriting  times.  When  the  starv- 
ing deserters 

With  disappointment  devoured  came  straggling 
back, 

Seeking  food  and  shelter  and  aid  at  the  master's 
door, 


THE  STORY  OF  PORT  US.  55 

Then  Portus  impatient  rebuked,  '  *  Go  long  wid  yo' 

all. 
I'se  tek  keer  ob  de  wite  folks.     Niggers  am  triflin' 


But  the  master  with  pity,  ' '  The  cabin  quarters  are 

free 

For  your  habitation  again,  and  if  you  should  choose 
My  crop  of  cotton  to  make,  I  will  pay  you  wage 
As  I  can  afford."     So  with  friction  and  grumbling 

perchance, 

To  the  old  plantation  did  many  return  and  begin 
The  life  of  an  epoch  new  with  labor's  rewards 
And  relations  as  yet  untried. 

'Twas  a  desperate  age; 

For  ignorant  hordes  at  large  made  villany  rife; 
And  Justice  with  paralyzed  arm  and  averted  face 
Had   fled  the  courts,  in  default  of  her  God-given 

trust. 

White  men  all  drunken  grown  with  the  gore  of  war 
Hated  the  freedmen  and  deadliest  vengeance  vowed 
On  the  new-time  rulers;  or,  haply,  if  failing  of  these 
On  the  dusky  tools  that  they  managed. 

Then  began 

The  reign  of  the  Ku-Klux  terrors,  the  long  un- 
checked 
And  terrible  friction  of  turbulent  years  that  make 


56  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

More  deplorable  comment  upon  the  vile  stains  that 

deface 
Humanity's  record  than  crimes  of  warfare  itself. 

One  dreary  midnight  to  Colonel  Rudolph  it  chanced 

That  a  sudden  sickness  befell;  for  the  army  life 

His  powers  had  enfeebled.  Now  Portus  his  mule 
bestrode 

To  get  him  in  haste  to  the  town  for  the  doctor's  aid. 

But  arrived  at  the  edge  of  the  wood  he  encountered 
a  gang 

Of  black- masked  riders  made  spectral  by  lanterns 
dark. 

'  Twas  the  dismal  and  sickening  tale  that  hath  often 
been  told. 

Mules  had  been  stolen,  gardens  and  henroosts 
sacked ; 

Then  as  final  incitement,  a  white  man's  body  was 
found 

Near  the  head  of  the  creek.  Suspicion  was  cen- 
tered at  last 

On  a  worthless  negro  whose  hut  in  the  forest  was 
built. 

Even  if  false  the  surmising,  example  was  due. 

When  law  failed  to  punish,  imperative  need  had 
arisen 

That  vigilant  citizens  rise  to  protect  the  State. 

So  the  ruthless  band  in  the  name  of  order  and  law 

Went  forth  on  a  lawless  errand,  but  found  them- 
selves balked 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  57 

Of  the  victim  intended,  and  now  in  sullenest  mood 
They  were  riding  again  to  their  homes. 

At  the  startling  sight 

Of  the  grim  procession  Portus  was  filled  with  alarm 
And  fled  in  dismay.     But  a  murderous  voice  cried 

out, 

u  Halt  with  yon  stolen  mule.     A  nigger  abroad 
At  midnight  betokens  no  good.   Ef  yer  aint  the  one 
Thet's  been  troublin'  these  yere  parts,  ye  hev  sins 

enough 
Of  yer  own  to  account  for.     We'll  string  yer  up 

with  despatch 

To  yon  walnut  tree,  an'  termorrer  yer  damned  race 
Shall  a  needful  lesson  learn." 

Then  Portus  felt 

A  sudden  pain  in  the  back,  and  fainting  fell, 
Shot   through   the   lung.     The   maskers   gathered 

around 

With  the  halter  ready  to  finish  their  bloody  deed 
By  a  ghastly  sight  for  the  morning  passers  by. 
But  just  as  they  tightened  the  rope,  on  the  pallid  face 
A  glimmer   of   moonlight   fell.      The   murderer's 

hand 

Relaxed  its  hold.     An  astonished  voice  exclaimed, 
"  I  'clar  ter  gracious.     I'm  blowed,  ef  we  aint  been 

an'  shot 
Col'n  Rudolph's  Portus.      Bless  me,  but  'tis  too 

bad, 
Best  nigger  that  ever  lived." 


58  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

The  senseless  form 

Not  untenderly  now  they  lifted,  and  laid  him  down 
At  his  master's  door  and  silently  hurried  away. 
There  the   household   found   him.     What   human 

skill  could  devise 
Was  done  for  his  cure;   but  the  time  decreed  had 

come. 

Feebly  his  dying  whisper  was  borne  to  the  ears 
Of  the  sorrowing  group  that  watched  the  expiring 

breath. 

' '  God  bless  yo'  Massa  an'  Missus,  chillun  all. 
Yo'  has  eber  been  kin'  an'  lovin'  an'  good  ter  me. 
I  has  tried  to  serb  yo'  well.     Dis  body  b' longed 
To  you.     But  de  soul  was  allus  my  own  an'  God's. 
I  has  no  complent  to  mek.     But  I'se  glad  to  go 
For  in  de  mansions  above,  I  is  suttin  sure 
Dat  all  will  be  diffunt  somehow. ' ' 

They  buried  with  tears 

Their  dead  in  a  garden  nook  that  his  dusky  hand 
Had  so  carefully  tended,  and  planted  a  rose-tree  near, 
And  a  simple  head-board   raised  with   inscription 

brief, 

"  Portus, — a  servant, — faithful  unto  death." 
One  mourner  constant,  she  who  related  this  tale, 
Unto  womanhood  grown,  erected  a  marble  stone 
As   memento   befitting   the   humble   friend   whose 

devotion 

Had  brightened  the  gloom  of  her  checkered  child- 
hood days. 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  59 

And  now  the  children  of  Rudolph's  children  come 
And  heap  it  with  roses  every  returning  spring. 


A  simple  tale  of  one  who  loved  and  strove 
To  do  his  duty  where  his  humble  lot 
Was  cast;  a  fate  indeed  not  most  unkind. 
All  of  its  compensations  slavery  gave 
To  Portus  freely,  yea,  and  sheltered  him 
From  many  an  ill  that  vexeth  anxious  hearts. 
Why  did  he  wish  it  different  ?     Nay,  hath  God 
Made  man  to  bear  his  image  ?     Can  a  soul 
Formed  to  aspire  and  grow,  its  all  in  all 
Find  in  another's  will  ?     Ye  parents  kind 
Who  strive  to  shape  the  pathway  of  your  child 
By  cherished  plans  that  your  best  love  hath  laid, 
Teachers  and  priests  and  princes,  will  ye  dare 
To  fetter  souls  you  fain  would  foster,  or 
Usurp  the  Headship  held  by  God  alone  ? 

Tale  of  a  system  dead,  that  while  it  checked 
The  onward  march  of  truth  and  held  the  seeds 
Of  sure  decay  and  death,  had  none  the  less 
Bright  phases  that  the  world  will  ever  keep 
In  tender  memory.     A  social  type 
To  Southern  soil  indigenous  hath  died, 
Never  precisely  to  be  reproduced 
While  time  shall  last.     So  be  it.     It  is  well. 
It  fitteth  not  this  age.     Yet  gently  still 
We'll  write  its  epitaph.     In  God's  wise  plan 


60  THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS. 

It  formed,  perchance,  a  needful  stepping  stone 

To  lift  from  savagery  a  heathen  race. 

Yea,  more.     Its  harvest  of  results  to-day 

Hath  brought  strange  races  in  relations  close 

That  so  the  world  may  truelier  understand 

Duties  and  rights  of  universal  man. 

Yet  in  the  firmament  of  broadening  truth, 

Dark  cloud-forms  still  the  gray  horizon  skirt; 

Hard  social  questions,  new,  yet  ever  old, 

In  varied  forms  seek  new  adjustment  still 

In  every  land  and  nation,  race  and  clime, 

Yet  fail  of  perfect  answer.     Like  attempt 

To  render  motion  ceaseless, — efforts  made 

To  square  the  circle, — problem  nearly  solved 

Yet  still  insoluble — so  is  the  task 

In  just  relations  man  with  fellow-man 

To  place,  and  all  with  God  in  harmony. 

What  just  precedence  each  should  yield  to  each; 

How  should  submission  blend  with  mastery 

That  so  the  social  order  be  preserved 

Yet  still  each  heavenborn  soul  unfettered  stand 

In  personal  growth  ?     Which  hath  superior  claim, 

Mankind  or  men  ?     Which  is  the  unit  fixed, 

The  human  race,  or  each  small  entity  it  holds  ? 

Like  wheel  within  a  wheel,  the  small  and  great 

Each  with  its  central  pivot,  move  we  all 

Within  society.     If  broken  cog 

Give  clash  with  tiny  fellow-wheel,  ensues 

Disaster  that  perchance  may  hindrance  give 

To  largest  revolution.     True  indeed, 


THE  STORY  OF  PORTUS.  61 

Must  the  adjustment  be  to  bind  aright 
The  one  to  many,  and  the  all  in  one. 

Large  conquests  hath  the  conscience  of  the  world 
Through  conflict  gained  and  never  will  restore. 
Thus  still  shall  later  truths  their  triumphs  win. 
But  oh,  the  hate,  the  strife,  the  jostling  jar, — 
The  blood  of  heroes!     May  we  never  win 
Reform  by  peaceful  process  ? 

Is  the  shower 

More  potent  for  the  lightnings  ?     Yea,  it  needs 
Electric  flash  and  shock  of  thunders  rude 
Of  perilous  vapors  foul  to  cleanse  the  air. 
This  too  is  Sovereign  plan,  and  in  God's  way 
Are  no  mistakes. 

As  strains  of  music  given 
By  players  near  lend  but  discordant  clash, 
Yet  heard  afar,  blend  in  proportions  sweet; 
So  all  these  discords,  if  they  could  be  heard 
From  Heavenly  heights  might  seem  to  blend  in  one 
Triumphant  strain  of  Heavenly  harmony. 


SONGS  OF  THE 

SOUTHLAND 


LINES  TO  A  FRIEND. 

KIND  friend,  of  mutual  faith  and  kindred  taste, 
A  thousand  cares  and  joys  with  thee  I've  shared, 
And  firmest  confidence  was  ne'er  misplaced 
However  fate  hath  fared. 

Yet  in  most  welcome  converse  oft  hath  been, 

Art,  science,  poesy,  whate'er  the  theme, 
A  note  of  subtle  discord  entering  in 
Like  mutterings  in  a  dream. 

Is  it  the  fault  of  climate,  or  of  birth  ? 

Of  the  environment  that  childhood  knew  ? 
Because  in  different  latitudes  of  earth 
Our  souls  to  stature  grew  ? 

Whether  because  my  grandsires  gained  their  bread 

From  flinty,  frugal  soil  amid  the  roar 
Of  ocean  winds  that  rocked  their  cradle  bed 
And  freedom's  message  bore; 

But  thine  mid  languorous  airs  of  softer  clime 

Saw  dusky  faces  at  their  bidding' bend, 
And  learned  the  arts  that  in  a  feudal  time 
Do  feudal  graces  lend  ? 


66  SOJVGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Is  it  this  force  of  Pilgrim  blood  in  me 

Gives  my  ideals  a  differing  hue  from  thine  ? 
To  thee  doth  glow  of  age  of  chivalry 
Make  variant  virtues  shine  ? 

Were't  possible  all  beauties  to  unite? 

Could  thoughts  antipodal  sweet  kinship  feel  ? 
Is  not  swift  impact  sure  the  spark  to  light 
When  flint  encounters  steel  ? 

A  hundred  topics  fire  it.     Large  or  small 

The  thought  or  theme,  not  one  but  seems  to  be 
Close  anchored  to  that  central  fact  in  all 
Our  nation's  history, 

The  civil  strife  that  gathered  as  it  must 

'Twixt  social  systems  of  opposing  plan, 
Contentious  views  of  life's  relations  just 
For  man  and  fellow-man. 

They  say,  "  Let  be!     Bid  vain  dissensions  rest. 
Unearth  no  more  dead  issues.     We  are  one." 
What  fools  they  be!     The  Present  is  impressed 
With  Past,  though  War  be  done. 

As  well  forbid  that  earth's  internal  fires 
Convulse  again  its  surface,  as  pretend 
That  burning  sentiments  that  roused  our  sires 
Have  met  a  buried  end. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  67 

Nor  were  the  fear  to  speak  the  honest  thought 

A  fitting  peace  for  comrades,  but  for  foes, 
Or  chance  acquaintance,  whose  communion  naught 
Save  drear  politeness  knows. 

We  read  our  father's  record.     At  the  word 

Yankee  am  I,  Confederate  thou  again. 
To  sudden  zeal  our  sympathies  are  stirred 
At  prick  of  History's  pen. 

Yet  is  the  jar  all  discord  ?     Or  at  most 

Doth  it  but  serve  our  angles  to  abrade, 
And  manifest  mistakes,  a  mighty  host, 
Our  sires  in  blindness  made  ? 


No  recreant  I  to  truth  because  I  see 

Some  rays  that  morning  mist  had  erst  concealed; 
Base  were  it  if  with  mounting  sun  should  be 
No  clearer  light  revealed. 

I  see  thy  fathers  dying  without  fear, 

For  what  they  deemed  the  right,  resigning  all, 
Perplext  in  reasons,  but  with  heart  sincere 
To  follow  Duty's  call. 

I  view  their  courtly  mien,  the  dauntless  way 

They  slaughtered  self  a  cherished  cause  to  save, 
Nor  am  I  loth  my  tributes  here  to  lay 
On  Lee's  and  Jackson's  grave. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

But  truly  thou  hast  felt  more  strenuous  change, 

So  much  that  seemed  at  variance  with  thy  past 
With  courage  hast  accepted.     Altered  range 
Of  vistaed  life  thou  hast. 

And  now,  while  o'er  thy  blood-stained  soil  again 

New  hopes,  new  energies,  new  joys  unfold, 
Thou  knowest  the  fathers  did  not  die  in  vain, 
Nor  would' st  recall  the  old. 

Costly  the  strife  in  blood  and  misery 

And  countless  treasure  both  to  South  and  North, 
But  a  united  land,  fraternal,  free, 

Still  costlier  price  were  worth. 

And  loyal  souls  shall  raise  thanksgivings  still 

In  future  ages,  that  through  unknown  ways 
And  human  weakness,  God  did  work  His  will 
And  manifest  His  praise. 

So  friend,  I  shun  thee  not,  nor  fear  to  share 
Past  memories  and  hopes  of  future  days, 
Nor  dread  collision,  if  we  freely  dare 
Differing  deeds  and  ways. 

No  jar,  but  music,  if  in  steadfast  faith 

And  generous  sympathy  we  give  and  take, 
Nor  fear  that  rudest  fact  that  History  saith 
Could  our  leal  friendship  break. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  69 

No  need  of  foreign  foe  to  make  us  clasp 

Fraternal  hands  in  common  cause  once  more, 
New  aims  and  future  issues  tempt  our  grasp, 
To  these  fling  wide  the  door, 

While  East  and  West  and  South  and  North  unite 

With  all  their  sons,  to  Freedom's  birthright  true, 
And  build  foundations  of  a  future  bright 
O'er  graves  of  Gray  and  Blue. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTH. 


CHEVALIER'S  SONG. 

A  LAMENT  for  the  good  old  days, 
The  age  of  the  brave  and  the  fair. 
The   times  are   disjointed,    deceivers   wax 

strong, 

While  argument  noisy  displaceth  the  song, 
And  sophistries  fill  the  air. 

In  heartbreak  and  blood  Glory  died. 
We  spared  neither  fortune  nor  life 
In  the  boldest  attempt  that  was  ever  begun 
Against  hazardous  odds.     But  now  it  is  done: 
Peace  reigneth  after  strife. 


70  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

We  buried  our  hopeless  Cause. 

Yet  memories  sweet  fill  the  mind 
Of  the  old  feudal  life,  of  the  sun  that  has  set 
On  Chivalry's  graces:  while  deepest  regret 

And  devotion  are  left  behind. 

But  the  Past  in  the  Future  shall  live. 

The  old  order  altereth  fast; 
Yet  from  ancestry  noble  alone  can  spring 
A  noble  descent,  and  till  death  will  we  bring 

Tributes  meet  to  our  hallowed  Past. 


THE  YOUNGER  SOUTH. 

WITH  eyes  turned  toward  the  morning 
With  garments  girt  for  fray, 
Decrepit  issues  scorning 
He  strideth  forth  to-day. 
To  new  resources  waking, 
Mighty  contingents  staking, 
He  sees  o'er  all  a  coronal 

Of  fadeless  oak  and  bay. 

What  though  his  wealth  be  scattered 

And  wounds  of  war  still  smart  ? 
Though  cherished  hopes  lie  shattered, 
Loud  sings  his  buoyant  heart. 
Life  hath  its  resurrections, 
And  cheered  by  Hope's  reflections 
He  boldly  now  records  the  vow 
To  act  no  coward's  part. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  71 

What  if,  though  passion  rages, 

His  heart  should  find  this  grace 
To  solve  for  all  the  ages 
Vast  problems  of  the  race  ? 
If  here  he  victory  gaineth 
And  God's  own  truth  maintaineth, 
With  highest  claims  'mong  conquerors'  names 
Shall  his  deserve  a  place. 


BLACK  MAN'S  SONG. 

FROM  the  land  of  the  sun,  sad  victims  of  greed, 
Our  fathers  were  stolen  away. 
But  the  fruit  of  their  grief,  by  the  All-Wise  de- 
creed, 
Is  our  strength  and  salvation  to-day. 

In  this  liberty  land  are  we  citizens  born, 

Her  speech,  her  religion  are  ours; 
The  touch  of  the  white  man,  though  mingled  with 
scorn 

Hath  wakened  our  slumbering  powers. 

"  The  child  of  the  bondwoman  may  not  be  heir 
With  the  child  of  the  free,"  they  cried; 

But  a  Christlier  gospel  pervadeth  the  air, 
And  its  truths  shall  forever  abide. 


72  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

We  are  coming  undaunted,  our  heirloom  to  take; 

O  brothers  more  blest,  give  us  time, 
View  with  patience  our  faults  and  assist  us  to  make 

Through  struggle  a  record  sublime. 

Who  knoweth  what  mission  awaiteth  us  here 
For  the  land  that  in  common  we  love  ? 

Who  can  say  what  achievement  in  us  shall  appear 
That  the  world's  great  adjustments  shall  move  ? 


"SANDHILLERS." 

BROWN  jeans,  cotton  gown, 
Pipe  in  mouth,  they  come  to  town, 
Dull  eye,  cheek  of  tawn, 
Two-wheeled  cart  by  ' '  critter  ' '  drawn. 

Hawk  their  wares — (or  beg,  alas) 
"Berries,  'lightwood,'  sassafras," 
Barely  live, — no  higher  aim, — 
Son  and  grandson  still  the  same. 

Do  they  love  ?     Do  they  hate  ? 
Do  they  choose  this  dull  estate  ? 
Have  they  hopes  ?     Have  they  fears  ? 
Joys  or  griefs  to  mark  the  years  ? 

Why  such  lot  ?     In  feudal  days 
Outcast  they  from  social  ways. 


SO1VGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  73 

Sterile  soil — life  alone — 
Slave  nor  master  did  they  own. 

What  the  end  ?     Is  for  these 
Newborn  South  of  prophecies  ? 
Or  will  fate  soon  or  late 
Total  type  exterminate  ? 


JEFFERSON  DAVIS,  DECEMBER  IITH,  1889. 

THE  Southland  mourns.     With  dirge  of  tolling 
bell 

And  bated  breath 
Devoted  millions  to  the  nations  tell 
That  war's  defeat  their  homage  could  not  quell 
For  chieftain  hushed  in  death. 

Not  to  the  stedfast  valorous  heart  alone 

Is  tribute  brought. 

His  name  the  synonym  of  glory  flown, 
Of  fallen  Cause  which  Southrons  not  disown, 

For  which  their  fathers  fought. 

In  flower-strewn  catafalque  and  thronging  host 

We  seem  to  see 

The  tenuous  wraith  of  issues  that  almost 
The  nation  rent,  that  dire  conclusions  cost 

In  human  destiny. 


74  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

To  sift  events  of  war  not  this  the  time, 

Such  History's  task. 
Whether  his  life-devotion  were  a  crime, 
Or  but  the  frustrate  force  of  soul  sublime 

Let  future  ages  ask. 

To-day  give  sepulture  to  Leader  dead, 

To  warrior  proved, 

And  scatter  floral  requiems  o'er  his  head, 
And  deck  his  gray-robed  form  with  white  and  red, 

The  banner  that  he  loved. 

But  not  the  nation's  ensign!     'Twere  unmeet 

Its  folds  to  use 

In  hollow  half-mast  mockery  to  greet 
Him  who  till  death  did  clasp  his  proud  defeat 

And  loyalty  refuse. 

Nor  would  he  wish  it.     Throbs  of  tenderness 

Beat  in  his  breast 

For  Southland  only.     Then  let  clamor  cease. 
But  give  him  what  he  loved.     And  may  God's  peace 

Upon  his  ashes  rest. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  75 


HENRY  W.   GRADY. 

DIED    DEC.    23,   1889. 

SECESSION'S  Chief  just  gone!  And  hark! 
Again  the  knell 
Of  death !     But  on  what  shining  mark 

This  missile  fell! 

Then,  strife  unhealed  gave  sorrow  scope; 
To-day  the  new-born  South  laments  a  blighted  hope. 

With  words  of  peace  upon  his  lips 

The  soul  went  forth. 

As  bee  from  bloom  the  honey  sips, 

So  South  and  North 

Drink  gentle  thoughts  this  Christmas-tide 
That  Grady  voiced  with  moving  eloquence, — and 
died. 

But  what  prophetic  vision  flits  ? 

The  South,  long  bound 
By  dominant  ideas,  like  bits 

Of  iron  round 

One  lodestone  point,  each  separate  spar 
By  one  attraction  held,  yet  bristling  wide  and  far, — 

Sudden  they  fall  apart,  their  pact 
At  last  o'ercome 


76  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

By  subtle  chemic  powers  that  act 

Resistless  from 

New  mingling  elements,  and  to  our  view 
The  solid  unit  falls  to  fuse  in  structure  new. 

Yet  nay!     Not  chemic  force!     Bend  low 

Thy  listening  ear 
And  hear  the  pulsing  life-blood  flow; 

Soon  shall  appear 

The  new  organic  whole,  each  vital  part 
Feeling  with  each  alike  the  nation's  throbbing  heart. 

Should  Southland  faint  despairing  ?     No. 

The  Ages  cry 
"  Movements  are  more  than  men,"  and  so 

Though  leader  die, 
God  hath  reserved  resources  still, 
And  through  mysterious  ways  He  works  His  sover- 
eign will. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  77 


MAGNOLIA. 

THOU  Grandiflora,  lifting  high 
Symmetric  branches  'gainst  the  sky, 
Like  a  patrician  in  thy  pride, 
My  window-pane  beside, 
Magnolia! 

Thy  perfumed  snow-white  banners  fling 
Profuse  and  free  the  charms  they  bring, 
And  coral  seed-cones  scatter  round 
Their  jewels  on  the  ground, 
Magnolia! 

Thy  polished  leaf-whorls  proudly  wear 
Each  a  perennial,  courtly  air 
As  if  nor  wind  nor  tempest  could 
Debase  thy  gen  try- hood, 
Magnolia! 

In  gentle  clime  thou  hold'st  thy  place 
A  miracle  of  stately  grace, 
'  Mong  leafless  boughs  first  envoy  seen 
Of  tropic  evergreen, 
Magnolia! 


78  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 


A  SONG  OF  COTTON. 

SOFT  and  feathery  fibre  white 
Pressed  in  solid  bale, 
Substance  for  my  garments  light, 

Thou  dost  tell  a  tale 
Full  of  rich  association 
With  the  storied  old  plantation. 

In  the  ante-bellum  days 
Was  thy  glory  felt, 
Ere  the  rush  of  modern  ways 

Had  new  rulings  dealt. 
Clumsy  press  and  gin-house  roomy 
Signify  thy  history  to  me. 

Chiefest  wealth  of  Southern  soil 

Known  to  planters  brave, 
To  thy  culture  given  the  toil 

Of  the  humble  slave; 
Yet  some  things  they  had  forgotten 
When  they  called  thee  "  Old  King  Cotton." 

Watch  the  glossy  plants  uprise, 

In  their  vernal  green, 
Row  on  row  before  our  eyes 

Stretching  fair  and  clean. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  79 

Cotton  fields  in  sandy  setting 

Charm  the  eye,  bright  hopes  begetting. 

Opening  blossoms,  white  to-day 

Pink  to-morrow  morn, 
Morrow  after,  fallen  they 

Withered  and  forlorn. 
But  the  angled  forms  appearing 
Prophesy  of  harvests  nearing. 

Brown  and  dry  at  last  the  field 

As  each  bursting  boll 
Now  begins  its  wealth  to  yield. 
Beauty  crowns  the  whole; 
Feathery  fleeces  soft  and  clinging 
O'er  the  earth  a  mantle  flinging. 

Sable  forms  inured  to  toil 

Soon  are  gathered  here, 
Each  plucks  out  the  snowy  coil 

Of  the  fibrous  sphere, 
Heaps  the  lint  within  his  basket; 
Gentler  toil,  he  doth  not  ask  it. 

Staple  short  or  staple  long, 

Fibre  pure  and  cool, 
Gleaming  out  in  contrast  strong 

With  his  dusky  wool, 
Loosened  bits  around  him  hovering 
Deck  his  rags  with  downy  covering. 


8o  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Now  at  last  the  linty  seeds 
Gathered  by  the  gin, 
Go  to  serve  a  hundred  needs 

From  their  wealth  within, 
Wealth  complete  with  naught  of  losing, 
Every  grain  some  worth  infusing. 

Hath  the  gathered  crop  a  lien  ? 

Ah!  if  so  I  fear 
Those  rich  gains  that  Hope  hath  seen, 

Are  doomed  to  disappear. 
You  will  rue  it,  if  you  put  your 
Confidence  in  a  cotton  future. 

But  younger  Southrons  all  around 

In  whose  heart  of  youth 
Is  no  cotton  fibre  found 

Rule  the  age,  in  truth. 
Southern  factories  now  are  showing 
A  new  life  for  cotton  growing. 

Busy  hands  to  labor  lent 

Here  fresh  openings  find. 
Stalwart  hearts  with  brave  intent 

Leave  worn  ways  behind. 
A  regal  age  shall  Faith  determine 
Graced  by  summer's  robe  of  ermine. 


T 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  81 


A  FATWOOD  FIRE. 

HE  kings  of  the  forest  bit  by  bit 

On  my  brick-laid  hearth  into  ashes  expire, 
While  nursing  my  fancies  I  dreamily  sit 
Feeding  my  fatwood  fire. 


Great   bunches   of  "lighters"    by   country-folk 
brought, 

And  sold  at  the  doorway  of  every  buyer, 
Concentrated  richness,  eagerly  sought, 

A  cheap  and  luxurious  fire. 

These  turpentine  juices,  saved  from  the  still, 
In  great  tongue-flashes  leap  higher  and  higher, 

My  room's  dusky  corners  to  people  and  fill 
With  ghosts  from  a  lightwood  fire; 

While  healing  and  fragrance  and  brightness  and 
heat, 

And  deep  satisfaction  for  human  desire, 
And  strength  and  repose  of  the  spirit  do  meet 

In  the  blaze  of  a  fatwood  fire. 


82  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 


MY  MOCKING-BIRD. 

NO  prison  cage  contains  my  bird. 
In  a  leafless  water-oak  tree 
With  mistletoe  hung  he  whistles  and  sings, 
A  hundred  quirks  has  he, 
Trilling,  swelling, 
Clear  out-welling, 

Loud  sings  the  mocking-bird,  loud  sings  he, 
To  a  listening  world  from  the  old  oak  tree. 

From  the  selfsame  perch  each  early  spring, 

No  matter  who  may  hear, 
He  pipes  his  joyous  carolling, 
I  hearken  and  draw  near, 
Stealthy,  spying, 
His  form  descrying, 

But  his  modest  plumage  I  scarce  can  see 
On  the  topmost  bough  of  the  tall  oak  tree. 

What  meaning  hath  this  medley  strain  ? 

Blithe  notes  of  lark  and  jay, 
Of  robin,  red-bird,  oriole,  thrush, 
Mixed  in  delightful  way  ? 
In  new  surprises 
The  music  rises, 

But  what  cares  the  mocking-bird,  what  cares  he 
This  reveller  gay  in  the  old  oak  tree  ? 


SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHLAND.  83 

Yet  changeful  songster,  tell  me  true, 

Dost  give  but  mocking  sound  ? 
Surely  thine  own  heart  passions  seek 
For  utterance  profound. 
Loving,  adoring, 
His  soul  out-pouring, 
With  pathos  and  merriment  still  sings  he, 
My  mocking-bird  hid  in  the  old  oak  tree. 


HERO  WORSHIP. 

LEAVE  us  our  heroes.     Doth  stern  Truth  demand 
The  ruthless  razure  of  each  brave  ideal  ? 
May  History's  page  reflect  a  perfect  Real? 
Must  not  the  fragment  for  completeness  stand  ? 

Can  we  afford  to  miss  the  inspiring  sight 
Of  man's  divinest  deed  in  loftiest  mood  ? 
What  else  doth  stimulate  to  love  of  good 

Like  soaring  fellow-soul  in  highest  flight  ? 

Were  photograph  distinct  in  noonday  glare, 
Each  spot  by  fiercest  light  more  obvious  still, 
Truer  than  artist  touch  that  limns  with  skill 

The  softer  outline  seen  through  mellower  air  ? 


84  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Stay !  Though  iconoclast  in  furious  mood 
Shatter  the  shrine  of  fact  with  fancy  blent, 
Is  it  so  grievous  ?     Man  was  never  meant 

To  worship  man.     The  Lord  alone  is  good. 

It  were  not  ill  that  we  the  lesson  learn 

Of  human  lack  and  frailty.     Truth  with  Love 
Dwelleth  unstained  alone  in  realms  above, 

Whereto  our  humbled  souls  devoutly  turn. 

Though  earthly  gods  may  fall  in  fate's  reverse, 
E'en  while  we  kneel,  behold  them  close  beside, 
Lifting  heart  homage  to  the  Glorified — 

Heroes  no  more,  but  fellow-worshippers. 


w 


DENIAL. 

ITH  youth,  health,  honors,  life  was  crowned, 
While  friends  and  fortune  smiled  around, 
Yet  barrenness  of  joy  he  found — 


"  One  boon,  one  only  boon,  I  crave, 

All  else  relinquish  this  to  have, 

But  wanting,  better  were  the  grave." 

In  vain  his  strivings  fierce  and  hot, 
Nor  could  bestowment  bless  his  lot, 
'  Twas  poison, —  And  he  knew  it  not. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  85 


THE  BRIDE. 

SHE  turned  away  from  flower  and  gift  and  kiss 
To  childhood's  nursery; 
And  low  reclining  on  her  infant  bed, 
E'en  while  her  cup  o'erflowed  with  life's  best  bliss 
A  silent  tear  she  shed 
For  her  lost  liberty. 


BEAUTY'S  SERVICE. 

IN  the  garden  of  Beauty  I  wandered  with  deep'n- 
ing  delight 

Till  the  pathway  divergent  revealed  to  my  won- 
dering sight 

Even  Beauty  herself,  in  glorious  presence  advancing, 
And  I,  into  ecstasy  thrilled  by  the  vision  entrancing, 
Before  her  in  worship  fell  prone. 
"  O  goddess,"  I  cried,  "  I  will  render  thee  ever 
My  homage  devout,  and  enthrone 
Thy  form  in  my  bosom  forever." 

But  with  gesture  of  mild  rebuke  she  put  all  my 

proffers  by. 
"  See  that  thou  do  it  not;  for  thy  fellow  servant  am 

I." 


86  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Amazeful   I    cried:     "Nay,    service  belongeth   to 

commoner  creatures. 
It  would  soil  thy  stainless  robe  and  thy  peerless 

perfection  flaw. 
No  touch  of  grosser  use  should  harden  the  grace  of 

thy  features. 
Thou  f  ulest  a  realm  far  other,  thyself  thine  own  end 

and  law." 

But  gently  she  waved  me  aside. 
"  Go  question  my  flowers!  "  she  replied. 

So,  faring  onward,  I  traversed  the  garden  labyrinth 

over, 
While    round    my    steps,    up-thronging,    pressed 

numberless  blooms  of  clover; 
A  lawnful  of  grassy  spirelets   my  hasty  footsteps 

were  crushing; 

Around  me  showered  the  petals  of  apple  and  peach- 
blows  blushing, 
And,   commingled   with   theirs,    the   voice   of  the 

springing  corn 

From  fields  beyond  to  my  ear  by  the  breeze  was 
borne. 

* '  O  pass  us  not  slightingly  by, ' ' 
With  eager  insistence  they  said, 
' '  Nor  to  Beauty  our  title  deny 
Because  with  utility  wed." 

"Ye   are   fair,"   I   said    coldly,  "I  grant  it;   but, 
fairer  by  far,  ye  must  own, 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  87 

Are  the  flowerets  that  stoop  not  to  use,  but  bloom 
for  delight  alone. ' ' 

Then  an  odorous  whisper  breathed  o'er  me  from 
blossoming  orange  boughs  bending, 

"  Dost  treat  our  sweet  pureness  with  scorn, 

Or  forbid  us  the  bride  to  adorn, 

Because  of  the  fruitage  so  luscious  toward  which  all 
our  being  is  tending  ?  " 

But  I  answered:  "  Each  law  hath  exception. 

And  chiefly  the  fairest  flowers 

Know  naught  save  their  own  perfection 

And  the  blossoming  of  the  bowers. ' ' 

Then  from  heart  of  the  roses  faint  waftures  were 

blown: 

"  Dost  think  that  the  roses  no  ministry  own, 
And  in  work  for  the  weal  of  the  world  have  no  share 
Because  more  subtle  the  missions  we  bear  ? 
If  our  beauty  doth  satisfy  need 
In  the  nature  of  man,  canst  thou  know 
How  soon  it  may  germinate  seed 
Which  into  high  impulse  shall  grow  ?  " 

And  the  clustering  lily-bells  rang 

In  full  chorus  of  fragrance  and  sang: 

' '  Fairest  of  all  the  fair  charms  the  fairest  among  us 

e'er  nameth 
Is  the  precious  truth  of  the  Master  which  ever  our 

vesture  proclaimeth." 


88  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Still  I  ventured,  more  humbly:   "  Once  more  let  me 

ask, 
For  buried  in  forests  and  hid  in  the  clefts  of  the 

mountains, 
By  desert  winds  blown  and  nourished  from  far-off 

fountains, 
There  be  myriad  flowers  that  acknowledge  nor  use 

nor  task, 
Apart  from   arena   where   right   doth   battle  with 

wrong, 
I  pray  thee,  doth  ministry  also  to  these  belong?" 

Then  a  mighty  murmur  arose, 

As  though  great  Nature's  repose 

Were  aroused  to  a  deep  agitation; 

The  sand  and  the  stones  and  all  vegetation, 

The  insects,  the  beasts  and  the  birds, 

With  one  impulse  their  utterance  lent, 

And  the  winds  gave  soft  modulation, 

While  ocean  made  rhythm,   and  the  stars  joined 

with  accent  harmonious 
The  strain  that  swelled  upward  in  cadence  sympho- 

nious, 

Till  at  last  in  articulate  words 
The  myriad  voices  were  blent. 

"  O  Witless  One,  failest  to  learn 
Creation's  deep  law  ?     Dost  not  see 
How  matter  inert  the  floweret  doth  feed, 
Which  yieldeth  in  turn 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  89 

Its  sweets  to  the  bee  ? 

The  law  to  all  being  decreed, 

To  satisfy  ever  the  need 

Of  some  other.     Naught  liveth  alone; 

But  in  Nature's  great  Cosmos  enlinked  must  be, 

What    prat'st    thou    of    kingdom    apart?       'Tis 

unknown. 

So  Beauty  true  dignity  findeth  in  sweet  ministration, 
And  joineth  the  chorus  that  yields  to  the  Ruler  of 

all  adoration." 

Then  slowly  I  turned  me  to  where  I  had  seen 

Beauty  herself,  so  majestic  in  mien. 

And  lo!   she  was  fallen   a-kneeling,   with   uplifted 

eyes; 

And  with  strange  surprise 
My  heart  in  silence  confest 
That  of  all  her  charms  the  best 
Were  not  found  in  her  features  so  faultless,  nor  yet 

in  her  figure's  grace, 
But  were  gleams  of  a  Heavenlier  glory  reflected  in 

her  face. 


MISUNDERSTOOD. 

jnpWAS  not  a  stranger  hand  that  smote,  nor  foe; 
JL       'Twas  brother  gave  the  blow, 
Nor  dealt  in  wrath,  nor  meant  to  wound  me  so, 
He  merely  did  not  know. 


90  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 


PERPLEXITY. 

SPEAK  plainer,  voices  echoing  in  my  heart, 
Your  jargon's  import  pray  reveal  to  me. 
Swift  impulse,  duty,  judgment,  seem  to  be 
But  loud-mouthed  wranglers  in  the  busy  mart; 
Your  differing  becks  make  me  to  shrink  and  start. 
Display  your  ensigns.     Show  authority 
For  what  you  speak,  some  grounded  certainty 
Of  your  inherent  meanings  pray  impart. 
I  wait  o'erwhelmed  in  all  this  strife  and  tangle 
Of  sophistry, —  this  endless  clamorous  fight. 

O  that  escape  or  remedy  were  found! 
I  list,  but  still  the  noises  jar  and  jangle. 
When  will  the  potent  master-touch  unite 
These  discords  in  one  harmony  of  sound  ? 


APPRECIATION. 

NOT  praise  undue,  not  censure  more  than  meet, 
Giveth  my  twin; 

But  gentle  blame,  well  earned  approval  sweet, 
Motive  for  action,  courage  in  defeat, 
And  in  my  loftiest  moods  my  soul  doth  greet 
With  thoughts  akin. 


SOJVGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  91 


ANSWER. 

HUSH,  foolish  heart,  and  cease  thy  bootless  strife. 
Thyself  hath  roused  this  turbulent  anarchy 
Of  forces  in  thy  being.     'Tis  of  thee 
This  wrangling  jar,  with  din  and  clamor  rife. 
Like  broken  string,  like  shivered  lute  or  fife, 
Like  cleaving  organ -stop,  thy  murmurings  be 
Discordant  minglings  in  the  harmony 
Of  the  great  orchestra  thou  callest  Life. 

Still  thy  wild  outcries!     Hush  thy  vain  rebelling! 
The  heavenly  overtones  that  now  are  drowned 

In  tumult,  yield  their  cadence  to  the  ears 
That  hearken  rightly  to  the  anthem  swelling. 
To  souls  accordant,  no  distracting  sound 
Marreth  the  music  of  the  Eternal  spheres. 


92  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 


FULFILLMENT. 

T^INISHED  at  last,  the  work  whereto  I've  given 
A       My  best  for  years,  and  striven 

Not  for  self-glory,  but  because  was  laid 
On  me  demand.     I  made 
The  final  touch  my  rainbow  quest.      At  last 
Like  a  flash  fulfillment  passed — 
Now  weary,  empty,  purposeless,  I  ask 
Is  it  gain  or  loss  to  count  a  finished  task  ? 


THE  LEGEND  OF  NINETY-SIX. 

OTR  ANGE  and  inspiring  tales  come  faintly  ringing 
O     From  Carolina's  old  colonial  days, 

That  storied  time  its  hazy  mantle  flinging 
O'er  white  men's  struggles  and  o'er  Indian  ways. 

'Twere  well  our  hearts  should  keep  alive  the  story 
That  kind  tradition  treasureth  from  the  past; 

We  gain  new  motive  from  the  legends  hoary 
That  round  the  tame  To-day  their  halos  cast. 

Long  years  ago  a  band  of  English  rovers 
By  the  Saluda  did  their  camp-fire  fix, 

Where  among  wooded  hills  and  blossoming  clovers 
Lieth  to-day  the  town  of  Ninety-Six. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  93 

But  soon  on  trade  intent  they  left  their  station 

To  seek  alliance  with  the  Cherokee, 
And  smoked  the  calumet  with  that  ancient  nation, 

Driven  westward  now  by  ruthless  Destiny. 

Thus  met  the  Captain's  son,  young  Allan  Francis, 
The  dark-browed  daughter  of  the  savage  King, 

Noble  Cateechee, —  and  mid  glowing  fancies 

Both  hearts  were  slain  by  Love's  manoeuvering. 

Homeward  they  came.     But  in  the  autumn  waning 
To  slay  the  white-face  planned  the  treacherous 
Brave. 

Cateechee,  in  her  tent,  deep  slumber  feigning, 
Listened  and  whispered,  'Til  my  lover  save." 

Now  for  the  love  of  Allan  see  her  rushing, 

Through  wood  and  marsh,  sun-heat  and  evening 
damp, 

The  dewy  ground  her  "silk-grass"  mantle  brushing, 
To  warn  the  threatened  ones  within  the  camp. 

The  stretching  miles  her  Indian  instincts  measure. 

Through  ninety-six  her  hasty  footsteps  fared 
Unresting  to  the  spot  that  held  the  treasure 

For  whose  dear  sake  such  perils  she  had  dared. 

Gaining  the  creek  upon  the  southward  lying, 
Prostrate  at  last  in  deadly  swoon  she  sank, 

Young  Allan  saw  and  with  a  swift  out-crying, 
He  threw  himself  beside  her  on  the  bank. 


94  SOA7GS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Opened  her  eyes  upon  her  trembling  lover, 
"  For  you  I  dared  it,  and  I've  come  to  save 

From  death  impending."     Allan  bent  above  her, 
' '  My   Princess.      Love  hath  proved  a  conqueror 
brave. ' ' 

Now  by  Cateechee  warned,  with  haste  the  grateful 
And  valiant  English  in  the  twilight  toiled 

For  safe  resistance,  and  at  midnight  fateful, 
The  Indian  chieftain  found  his  purpose  foiled. 

Then  Allan  took  the  maiden  so  devoted 
To  be  his  wife,  and  reared  a  dusky  race, 

And  through  the  region  was  the  story  noted, 
And  the  brave  deed  gave  title  to  the  place. 

In  later  days  came  modern  vandals  hoping 
To  change  by  law  the  ancient  honored  name. 

But  a  wise  champion,  with  their  purpose  coping 
Into  the  Senate  room  undaunted  came, 

Bearing  aloft  a  strange  device  inwoven 

Of  figures  "nine"  and  "six."     In  deep  amaze 

They  heard  his  cry,  "Behold  my  reasoning  proven," 
Inverting  then,  and  turning  devious  ways, 

Upward  and  downward,  left  and  right,  "  Now  mind 

it! 

North,  South,  or  East  or  West,  on  either  hand 
Nothing  but  Ninety-Six  can  searching  find  it, 
And  for  all  time  this  name  shall  changeless  stand." 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  95 

Quiet  the  scene  to-day,  a  peaceful  village 
Whose  modest  eye  the  landscape  overlooks, 

Evergreen  canes  and  fruitful  fields  of  tillage 
Enlivened  by  a  hundred  sparkling  brooks. 


And  Indian  relics  strewn  the  meadows  over, 
Old  tomahawks  and  bits  of  pottery  rude 

Tell  of  the  day  Cateechee  saved  her  lover 
From  dreadful  death  by  loving  fortitude. 

Here  let  us  pause  and  these  old  records  ponder, 
And  in  our  minds  and  hearts  their  memory  fix, 

Around  the  star-shaped  fort  that  loometh  yonder, 
And  guards  the  village  of  old  Ninety-Six. 


CHRISTOPHER  GADSDEN. 

IN  the  borders  of  ancient  Charles-Town 
Where  the  Ashley  River  runs, 
Round  Christopher  Gadsden  gathered 
Brave  Carolina's  sons, 
And  under  a  massive  live-oak  shade, 

Gray-bearded  patriarch  tree, 
They  pledged  the  word  and  girded  the  sword 
For  the  cause  of  Liberty. 


96  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

For  tyranny's  hand  was  heavy; 

The  dullest  soul  was  stirred, 
And  the  voice  of  bold  resistance 

To  foreign  rule  was  heard. 
'Twas  Massachusetts  gave  the  call, 

No  stronger  soul  than  she 
Unto  this  day  hath  shaped  the  way 

For  a  people's  destiny. 

But  no  second  to  the  summons 

From  the  faint-hearted  came, 
And  the  smoke  of  doubt  was  smothering 

Bright  Freedom's  flickering  flame; 
The  blaze  that  was  kindled  in  Fanueil  Hall 

Was  swiftly  dying  out 
For  want  of  a  breath  to  keep  it  from  death 

In  all  the  land  about. 

In  that  great  crucial  moment 

Which  tried  the  souls  of  men, 
'Twas  the  voice  of  Christopher  Gadsden 

That  pronounced  for  Union  then; 
From  the  dim  Southern  distance  rang 

His  voice  in  resonant  tone, 
"  What  to  one  doth  befall,  belongeth  to  all, 

We  are  one  people  alone." 

Then  from  Hampshire  hills  to  Georgia, 

All  the  divided  land, 
Was  moved  by  a  mighty  impulse 

In  fellowship  to  stand; 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  97 

Yea,  all  the  colonies  in  that  day 

With  dauntless  purpose  rose 
And  gave  their  hands  in  brotherly  bands 

Against  their  country's  foes. 

First  in  New  England  highways 

The  blood  of  the  brave  was  shed, 
But  Southern  wastes  and  hillsides 

With  the  last  drops  were  red. 
For  the  issues  of  Concord  and  Bunker  Hill 

The  Puritans  left  their  toil, 
But  at  the  last  the  die  was  cast 

And  won  on  Southern  soil. 

Ye  have  heard  how  in  Carolina 

The  Patriot's  Cause  seemed  lost ; 
How  ruthless  through  all  her  borders 

Ravaged  the  Conquering  host ; 
How  with  stern  restriction  and  treacherous  oath 

The  souls  that  had  striven  to  be  free 
In  bondage  they  held,  and  to  earth  they  felled 

And  burned  that  old  Liberty  tree. 

No  tree  on  History's  pages 

Hath  better  right,  I  wis, 
No  Charter  Oak,  nor  Washington  Elm 

For  lasting  renown,  than  this  ; 
But  though  its  glories  all  were  shorn 

And  its  site  may  no  man  see, 
With  reverence  here  I  witness  bear 

To  the  fame  of  that  Old  Oak  tree. 


93  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Long  lay  the  land  in  darkness, 

Yet  in  mountain  fastness  and  swamp, 
Bold  Partisans,  true  to  their  Country 

Kept  burning  Liberty's  Lamp. 
In  shelterless  famine  these  out-law  bands 

'Mong  morasses  that  skirt  the  Pedee 
Kept  the  pledge  that  they  made  'neath  the  moss- 
hung  shade 

Of  Gadsden's  Liberty  tree. 

Let  the  wrongs  of  the  time  be  forgotten, 

The  hatred  that  oft  did  divide 
As  Tory  and  Whig,  close  kinsmen 

Who  should  have  fought  side  by  side  ; 
But  we'll  lift  our  banners  on  each  July 

For  all  the  ages  to  see, 
While  oration  and  bell  triumphantly  tell 
.  Of  the  conflict  that  made  us  free. 

And  second  to  none  in  glory 

Christopher  Gadsden's  name 
Upon  the  patriot  roll-call 

Boasteth  enduring  fame — 
Large-souled,  unwavering,  faultless,  bold, 

Lover  of  Country  he, 
Who  spied  afar  the  glorious  star 

Of  Western  liberty. 

Still  echoing  down  the  ages 
His  voice  in  accent  strong 


SO JVC S  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  99 

Reminds  us  if  grown  faint-hearted 

To  unite  against  error  and  wrong, 
To  acknowledge  now  no  East  and  no  West, 

No  North  and  no  South  to  see, 
No  Dixie — nay — nor  New  England  to-day, 

For  Americans  all  are  we. 


SONNETS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 
I. 

LAND  of  the  pine  and  cypress,  where  the  shades 
Of  tropic  forests  that  no  seasons  know 
Are  wed  to  heralds  from  the  realms  of  snow; 
Where  blooms  the  laurel,  while  the  jessamine  braids 
Its  golden  wreaths,  and  in  dim  everglades 
Elegiac  banners  tremble  to  and  fro; 
Where  dark  palmettoes  wave,  and  mistletoe 
Gives  waxen  verdure  when  the  summer  fades  ; 
O  land,  wherein  the  mocker  builds  his  nest 
And  chants  his  oracles,  and  loud  adores, 
Where  silent  marshes  clasp  the  curving  shores; 
Thou  gracious  land,  give  us  the  largess  blest 
Of  chosen  souls  who  lean  on  Natures'  breast 
While  in  their  ear  her  mysteries  she  pours. 

II. 

IN  vernal  hedgerows  blooms  the  Eglantine, 
And  opening  fleecy  bolls  and  ripening  maize 


ioo          SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Give  wealthy  glories  to  the  summer  days. 
O'er  wayside  bush  the  fervid  passion-vine 
Its  regal  spray  of  mystic  crowns  doth  twine. 
Upon  a  sheltered  bank,  while  fancy  strays 
Through  purpling  distances,  we  lie  and  gaze, 
Such  rare  inheritance,  O  South,  is  thine. 
Below,  the  river  to  the  ocean  runs, 

And  perfumed  air  and  shimmering  splendor  lies 
In  feeless  bounty  'neath  benignant  skies. 
Thus  reverent  Nature  sings  her  orisons 
And  shows  her  secrets  to  the  anointed  ones 
Who  win  to  read  them  with  anointed  eyes. 


III. 


A  LAND  of  old  renown  on  History's  page, 
Where  storied  Huguenot  and  Cavalier 
Their  missions  blended  ;  where  without  a  peer 

Gay  Chivalry  doth  boast  his  golden  age  : 

Where  beauteous  women  and  brave  men  engage 
Fond  Memory's  backward  look  and  listening  ear, 
Though  mingling  sorrows  start  the  ruthful  tear 

For  all  that  marred  the  Southland  heritage. 

Yet  sing  its  glory  now  with  lute  and  lyre. 
We  bury  but  the  dead.     So  let  it  be  ! 
The  Past  is  safe  !     With  chastened  gladness  we 

Will  bid  its  virtues  still  the  heart  inspire. 

Only  the  dross  doth  yield  to  furnace  fire; 
What  ought  to  live  hath  immortality. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  101 

IV. 

A  LAND  of  nameless  graves,  where  heroes  sleep 
In  blue  and  gray;  the  sacred  dust  of  those 
Above  whose    mouldering    bed  the  rank  weed 
grows, 

And  never  moistened  eyes  may  come  to  weep. 

The  dumb  cold  earth  doth  hide  their  secrets  deep; 
Its  sealed,  unpitying  lips  will  ne'er  disclose 
This  mortal  pathos  which  no  mortal  knows. 

Their  God  doth  know,  and  He  their  souls  will  keep. 

The  loosened  hand-clasp  aching  hearts  still  miss, 
And  thoughts  of  North  and  South  do  vainly  turn 
Unto  these  battle  graves  and  vaguely  yearn 

For  the  last  loving  word,  the  final  kiss. 

But  Mother  Nature's  heart  most  tender  is, 

And  wreathes  each  resting-place  with  moss  and 
fern. 

V. 

LAND  of  the  Future!     Lift  thy  forehead  high! 
As  from  the  chamber  lit  by  taper  rays 
With  hidden  corners  where  the  shadow  plays, 

One  goeth  forth  beneath  the  open  sky 

Of  the  vast  firmament  and  sends  his  eye 
Through  starry  spaces  with  a  deep  amaze, 
So  now  a  boundless  vision  meets  thy  gaze 

In  which  the  wings  of  faith  unfettered  fly. 

The  Future  beckons.     None  shall  say  thee  nay! 
Go  forth  in  large  resolve  with  giant  stride, 


102          SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Nor  in  the  folds  of  doubt  thy  talents  hide. 
The  dawn  of  Hope  triumphant  beams  to-day, 
No  gate,  no  caste,  no  creed  shall  bar  its  way. 

God's  purposes  forever  shall  abide. 

VI. 

O  MORNING  Land!  From  dreaming  slumbers  wake! 

High  noon  approacheth  with  occasion  rare; 

For  nobler  victories  now  thy  strength  prepare, 
And  every  hindrance  from  thy  shoulders  shake. 
The  magic  sword  of  truth  now  boldly  take, 

More  than  Excalibur  in  might,  and  dare 

To  wrestle  with  all  wrong,  and  overbear 
Each  hindering  foe,  each  chain  of  error  break. 
Thy  moral  manhood  prove  by  noble  fight; 

Chivalric  graces  still  the  world  doth  need 

For  peaceful  conquests  over  pride  and  greed. 
Join  then  the  tournament  with  armor  bright, 
And  win  thine  honors  as  a  gentle  knight, 

So  shall  thou  boast  a  Chivalry  indeed. 

VII. 

PEACE  be  within  thy  borders!  May  the  rude 
Trumpet  of  War  no  more  with  blast  malign 
Disturb  thy  groves  of  laurel  and  of  pine, 

So  verdant  now  in  balmy  quietude. 

May  lofty  motive  lower  aims  preclude, 

And  Bethlehem's  echoing  song  with  cadence  fine 
Inspire  thy  steadfast  soul  with  love  divine 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  103 

And  keep  thee  safe  through  fate's  vicissitude. 
In  benison  my  voice  I  gladly  lend. 

May  peaceful  homes  and  fireside  pleasures  be 

Thy  cherished  tokens  of  felicity. 
O  kindly  land,  with  trustfulness,  as  friend, 
Across  thy  hills  and  plains  my  prayers  I  send, 

And  give  thee  here  my  benedicite. 

VIII. 

THOU  larger  land!     Home  of  us  all  thou  art! 
Happy  to-day  that  now  the  Cavalier 
And  Huguenot  with  Puritan  draw  near, 

Hand  clasped  in  hand  and  heart  enlinked  with  heart. 

Forgotten  now  be  every  vengeful  smart, 

And  while  we  hold  our  "native  country  dear, 
May  her  wide  bound  proclaim  in  accents  clear 

That  all  mankind  doth  hold  inherent  part 

In  the  All- Father's  love  and  so  hath  claim 
To  human  brotherhood;  that  all  who  fill 
God's  family  may  share  the  birthright  still. 

May  largest  loves  add  lustre  to  her  fame 

The  while  we  hush  the  noise  of  strife  and  blame 
In  grateful  songs  of  glory  and  goodwill. 

IX. 

TRULY  the  new  is  older  than  the  old. 

It  hath  but  slept  awhile,  enwrapped  in  mist, 
But  wakening  earth  the  sunlight  warm  hath  kissed, 

And  all  the  hills  are  decked  in  robes  of  gold. 


104  SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND. 

Larger  horizons  now  our  eyes  behold, 
Delusive  fogs  no  more  our  way  resist, 
The  far-off  future  doth  our  hopes  enlist 

And  lengthening  vistas  to  our  view  unfold. 

In  vain  in  narrow  bounds  is  knowledge  pent; 

When  God  gives  light  in  vain  our  ways  we  hide, 
Our  finite  wills  check  not  the  ocean  tide, 

Unto  our  wanderings  truth  can  ne'er  be  bent, 

But  her  straight  bands  of  love  and  wisdom  blent 
Our  rapt  obedient  souls  will  safely  guide. 


ALONG  THE  CONGAREE. 

FROM  Carolina's  mountains 
Wee  springs  and  brooklets  flow, 
And  join  with  rush  and  tumult 
To  wet  the  plains  below. 
Through  sandhill  and  savanna 

And  where  the  millsites  be 
By  quarried  bluff  and  rockpile  rough 
Floweth  the  Congaree. 

A  noble  group  of  waters 

It  rolls  its  sinuous  tide 
'Neath  moss-encumbered  forests 

Where  coon  and  "  squinch-owl  "  hide. 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.  105 

We  trace  the  map-line  channels 

Like  a  grim  ancestral  tree 
Through  wanderings  vast  to  rest  at  last 

In  the  bed  of  the  still  Santee. 

A  hundred  years  have  vanished 

Since  moved  the  people's  mind 
For  a  noble  capital  city 

The  fitting  site  to  find. 
At  fork  where  the  brave  Saluda 

And  tawny  Broad  we  see 
In  marriage  bands,  Columbia  stands 

Upon  the  Congaree. 

Nigh  eighty  years  in  beauty 

With  shaded  avenue 
And  stately  home  and  temple 

The  garden  city  grew. 
Then  one  curst  night  in  winter 

(O  God,  that  such  could  be) 
Saw  shot  and  shell  and  flames  like  hell 

Along  the  Congaree. 

But  see,  the  phcenix  city 

Though  hushed  its  life-pulse  then, 
From  shroud  of  ashes  proudly 

Doth  rear  its  crest  again. 
Fair  as  of  old,  nay,  fairer, 

No  slave-mart  now  we  see 
To  soil  with  stain  of  sinful  gain 

The  untainted  Congaree. 


106  SONGS  OF   THE  SOUTHLAND. 

From  peaceful  hill  of  sunset 

We  gaze  with  ravished  eyes 
Where  granite  pile  and  church  spire 

Half  hid  in  verdure  rise. 
The  mists  creep  o'er  the  valley 

Where  the  rocky  Congaree 
Doth  rippling  flow  to  greet  below 

Its  twin,  the  Wateree. 

Or,  covered  bridge-way  crossing 

We  pause  where  loud  alarms 
The  trembling  city  menaced 

From  camps  of  men  in  arms. 
War,  charged  with  freedom's  message, 

Made  scars  that  still  we  see 
On  the  massive  wall  of  the  State  House  tall 

Beyond  the  Congaree. 

But  sounds  of  peace  now  mingle 

With  the  river's  murmuring  flow, 
Along  its  green  embankments 

The  corn  and  cotton  grow, 
Canal  and  farm  and  traffic 

In  common  toil  agree, 
And  whirring  mill  doth  work  its  will 

With  the  idle  Congaree. 

Thus  rolls  a  lusty  river 

In  shade  and  sunny  gleam 
Through  meadow  and  where  rock-ledge 

Deflects  the  tortuous  stream, 


SONGS  OF  THE  SOUTHLAND.          107 

To  seek  its  last  abiding 

Near  where  the  Great  Pedee 
Doth  find  its  way  through  Winyah  Bay 

Into  the  restless  sea. 

Now  to  its  fertile  basin 

May  sun  and  shower  be  kind, 
Great  Heaven  all  ills  forefending; 

And  may  the  future  find 
From  springs  on  Tryon  Mountain 

And  source  of  Ennoree 
From  Alpine  height  to  beachline  white, 

A  people  wise  and  free. 

And  let  all  murmurings  craven 

Within  these  borders  cease, 
And  in  all  hearts  be  mirrored 

The  river's  strength  and  peace. 
Joys  felt  are  ours  forever, 

And  each  of  us  will  be 
Forever  glad  for  joys  we've  had 

Beside  the  Congaree. 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

RENEWED  BOOKS  ARE  SUBJECT  TO  IMMEDIATE 
RECALL 


LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'69(N831s8)458-A-31/5 


N9  655000 


PS3523 

Leonard,  M.H.  E614 

The  story  of  Portus.    S7 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


